Battle of the sexes
We all know what women hate about men – but what do men hate about women?
(This one is on popular demand. The men are clamouring for gender neutrality after my column on what women want - so here's an old piece I did in Brunch about what not to do if you want to please your man!)
We are all very familiar with the list by now: of all the things that women hate about men. Not just about the men in their lives, but about men in general as well. And strangely enough, this list remains much the same, even if the women themselves vary vastly. It doesn't really matter if you're talking to a teenager in London, a mother of two in Mumbai, or an octogenarian in Ohio, their complaints about men are startlingly similar.
Top of the list, of course, are all those everyday irritants that make men impossible to live with. They leave the toilet seat up; they never pick up their clothes from where they left them (in a pile on the floor, if you must know); they leave sodden towels lying around; they never close any cupboard that they have opened; and they are incapable
of turning the lights out.
And that's just the small stuff. Then come the biggies, the kind that can wreck relationships if you don't watch out. They don't listen to anything; they are incapable of having a serious conversation; they never want to discuss their feelings; they don't understand the feelings of the women in their lives. I could go on, but I'm guessing
that you've got the general drift.
But surely, just as there are some (well, several actually) things that women loath about men there must be stuff that men hate about women as well? I would certainly think so. But because men, on the whole, are such uncommunicative creatures, we never really get to know their pet peeves about the opposite sex.
So, in the interest of promoting greater understanding between the sexes, I decided to conduct some strictly unscientific research among the men of my acquaintance to find out what they hate about women.
Here are my findings, in no particular order of importance:
• Women talk too much. And they talk all the time. Just when you've settled down to watch television they will start nattering about something about the other and insist that you turn the volume down to listen to them. They will burst in on you in the bath to discuss some pressing matter that can't possibly wait. They will nudge you awake in
the middle to the night to share what is bothering them.
• Even if you put aside whatever you are doing and listen to them, they insist that you are not really paying attention (and it doesn't help if you can repeat everything they have said back to them). You are just pretending to listen, they complain, your mind is somewhere else (on the game being telecast live, perhaps?). Really, there is no pleasing some people.
• If you manage to convince them that you have been paying close attention (perhaps by turning off the television?) they find something new to complain about. Now it's not that you don't listen. Now it's about how you don't understand. And there is no way to convince them that maybe, just maybe, you do.
• They constantly seek approval. If they are getting dressed, it's "Do I look fat in this?" or that old favourite "Does my bum look big in this?". And there's no right answer to questions such as these. If you say no, then you are implying that there are some outfits in which they do look fat and big-bottomed. And if you say yes…oh my God, all hell will break loose. There will be sulks, they will be tantrums, and you will never be allowed to forget what you said.
• This seeking of approval thing doesn't end there though. They want your opinion on everything: what jobs they should take/quit; where to send the kids to school; what birthday present to buy your mum; whether to invest in shares or real estate. Except that it soon becomes clear that they don't really want your opinion at all. They
have their own opinion on such matters and your role is simply to agree with them.
• They nag all the time and about everything. Why haven't you shut the cupboard door? Why are your clothes on the floor? Why don't you use a coaster under your coffee mug? Why haven't you opened that fixed deposit yet? Why can't you help with the children's homework? Why do you think that my bum looks big in this? Why don't you love me anymore? Why aren't you listening to me? Why, why, why?
• And then, when nothing else works, they cry. For all this talk about equality of the sexes, women are not above getting the waterworks going if it helps them get their way. And as we all know, men are like putty in the hands of a weeping woman.
• But what men hate most about women is that they simply can't win with them. Come over all chivalrous and they accuse you of treating them as the weaker sex. Be all tough and macho and you are told off for being a chauvinist pig. Stay strong and silent and they say that you're not in touch with your feelings. Be all weepy and sentimental
and they despise you for your weakness. Honestly, it's enough to make a grown man cry.
About Me
- Seema Goswami
- Journalist, Author, Columnist. My Twitter handle: @seemagoswami
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Sunday, August 8, 2010
What women want
It really doesn’t take much to make them happy – you just have to know what does
This column is dedicated to all those men who keep complaining that they have no idea when women want. To those men who despair of ever making their wives/girlfriends happy. To whom the mind of a woman is a closed box with No Access written in large red letters on the side. And most of all, to those who get it wrong despite trying their very best to please.
Take it from me, it doesn’t take much to make a woman happy. And contrary to all that guff you read in women’s magazines, it’s not all about oversized bouquets and boxes of expensive chocolate (though sometimes these may be very welcome). A woman’s happiness is tied up in a set of intangibles that vary through every stage in her life. And to know what these are, you need to pay pretty close attention to her.
But if that seems like a huge ask, here are a few pointers to nudge you in the right direction.
• What is the best compliment you can pay your woman when you are out with her? Telling her that she looks like a million bucks? Assuring her that her bum looks terrific in those pair of jeans? Well, yeah okay, that may be one way to go. But you know what they say: talk is cheap. If you really want your woman to feel like a million bucks, stop shooting sidelong glances at the other women who pass by through your peripheral vision. Stop checking out the derrierre of the lady riding the escalator ahead of you. Don’t open doors with a flourish for the babe in a tight mini-skirt. In fact, don’t even clock her existence. Have eyes only for your woman; and see her blossom and shine as she glows with the confidence of someone who knows that she is loved and desired.
• When the woman in your life is telling you about the problems in her life – at the office, with her parents, with the maid – all she wants you to do is listen and act like you care. She doesn’t want to be told that she is “making a mountain out of a molehill”. She has no desire to be asked to “just calm down and relax”. And she certainly doesn’t want you to go into problem-solving mode and tell her what exactly she is doing wrong and how she can resolve the situation. All she wants is that you pay close attention – i.e. switch off the television, get off Twitter, shut the newspaper and put down the volume on the I-pod – acknowledge that she has a genuine problem on her hands, and sympathise with the difficult situation she finds herself in. That’s ALL you need to do. So long as she feels that she is being listened to – rather than just heard – she will feel validated.
• Okay, so you are not the greatest of shoppers, and choosing a birthday/anniversary present for your woman is probably your idea of hell. But no matter how stressful gift-shopping may be, on no account must you delegate this task to your secretary/personal assistant (mostly because the woman in your life will always find out – and then all hell will break loose). This is one job you have to do yourself. If you are not confident about your taste, take the birthday girl along to choose something. But on no account must you buy her anything that you could end up enjoying yourself (so no flat-screen TVs, no Jacuzzi for the bathroom, or even expensive lingerie). The gift must be personal, something so luxurious that she would feel guilty about buying it for herself, and frivolous enough to suggest that you still see her as a fun person rather than a staid mother of two. Most importantly, you must also arrange that she can return the gift if she doesn’t like it and choose something else in its stead. And if she does – don’t look sulky. Just smile and say that this is what you had meant to buy her in the first place – before the salesgirl steered you in the wrong direction.
• When it comes down to it, remember that it is the little things that matter. Greet her with a kiss rather than a demand for a large drink when you arrive home at the end of a long day. The great toilet seat battle has already been waged and lost, but don’t rub salt in her wounds by leaving wet towels/clothes on her pristine new bed linen. Send her a text message in the middle of the day to tell her that you are thinking of her. Take the kids off her hands for a couple of hours on Saturday so that she can enjoy a manicure without them wrecking havoc around her. Be nice to her parents. Rub her feet as she lies in bed, exhausted after looking after a fractious one-year-old. Surprise her occasionally – whether it is with breakfast in bed, a single red rose, a CD that reminds you of the time you went dancing in Goa, or a weekend away without the kids. But most of all, just show her that her happiness matters to you. At the end of the day, that’s all you need to do to keep her happy.
See, I did tell you, it really doesn’t take much.
It really doesn’t take much to make them happy – you just have to know what does
This column is dedicated to all those men who keep complaining that they have no idea when women want. To those men who despair of ever making their wives/girlfriends happy. To whom the mind of a woman is a closed box with No Access written in large red letters on the side. And most of all, to those who get it wrong despite trying their very best to please.
Take it from me, it doesn’t take much to make a woman happy. And contrary to all that guff you read in women’s magazines, it’s not all about oversized bouquets and boxes of expensive chocolate (though sometimes these may be very welcome). A woman’s happiness is tied up in a set of intangibles that vary through every stage in her life. And to know what these are, you need to pay pretty close attention to her.
But if that seems like a huge ask, here are a few pointers to nudge you in the right direction.
• What is the best compliment you can pay your woman when you are out with her? Telling her that she looks like a million bucks? Assuring her that her bum looks terrific in those pair of jeans? Well, yeah okay, that may be one way to go. But you know what they say: talk is cheap. If you really want your woman to feel like a million bucks, stop shooting sidelong glances at the other women who pass by through your peripheral vision. Stop checking out the derrierre of the lady riding the escalator ahead of you. Don’t open doors with a flourish for the babe in a tight mini-skirt. In fact, don’t even clock her existence. Have eyes only for your woman; and see her blossom and shine as she glows with the confidence of someone who knows that she is loved and desired.
• When the woman in your life is telling you about the problems in her life – at the office, with her parents, with the maid – all she wants you to do is listen and act like you care. She doesn’t want to be told that she is “making a mountain out of a molehill”. She has no desire to be asked to “just calm down and relax”. And she certainly doesn’t want you to go into problem-solving mode and tell her what exactly she is doing wrong and how she can resolve the situation. All she wants is that you pay close attention – i.e. switch off the television, get off Twitter, shut the newspaper and put down the volume on the I-pod – acknowledge that she has a genuine problem on her hands, and sympathise with the difficult situation she finds herself in. That’s ALL you need to do. So long as she feels that she is being listened to – rather than just heard – she will feel validated.
• Okay, so you are not the greatest of shoppers, and choosing a birthday/anniversary present for your woman is probably your idea of hell. But no matter how stressful gift-shopping may be, on no account must you delegate this task to your secretary/personal assistant (mostly because the woman in your life will always find out – and then all hell will break loose). This is one job you have to do yourself. If you are not confident about your taste, take the birthday girl along to choose something. But on no account must you buy her anything that you could end up enjoying yourself (so no flat-screen TVs, no Jacuzzi for the bathroom, or even expensive lingerie). The gift must be personal, something so luxurious that she would feel guilty about buying it for herself, and frivolous enough to suggest that you still see her as a fun person rather than a staid mother of two. Most importantly, you must also arrange that she can return the gift if she doesn’t like it and choose something else in its stead. And if she does – don’t look sulky. Just smile and say that this is what you had meant to buy her in the first place – before the salesgirl steered you in the wrong direction.
• When it comes down to it, remember that it is the little things that matter. Greet her with a kiss rather than a demand for a large drink when you arrive home at the end of a long day. The great toilet seat battle has already been waged and lost, but don’t rub salt in her wounds by leaving wet towels/clothes on her pristine new bed linen. Send her a text message in the middle of the day to tell her that you are thinking of her. Take the kids off her hands for a couple of hours on Saturday so that she can enjoy a manicure without them wrecking havoc around her. Be nice to her parents. Rub her feet as she lies in bed, exhausted after looking after a fractious one-year-old. Surprise her occasionally – whether it is with breakfast in bed, a single red rose, a CD that reminds you of the time you went dancing in Goa, or a weekend away without the kids. But most of all, just show her that her happiness matters to you. At the end of the day, that’s all you need to do to keep her happy.
See, I did tell you, it really doesn’t take much.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Share and share alike
We provide a plethora of information about ourselves on social media sites – but does anyone really care?
Was there ever a time when we knew so much about so many people at any given time – and cared so little? And by people I don’t just mean friends and family or even chance acquaintances who tag you on Facebook, but complete strangers whom we would not recognise if we bumped into them on the street outside. And yet we are privy to their most personal details, their most intimate moments, their deepest thoughts, their most heart-felt emotions. We may not know what they look like, we may not even know their real names, but their private passions and secret demons are laid bare for the scrutiny of all those who care to look (or read).
In some sense, the anonymity provided by the Internet has a certain liberating effect on all of us. If we don’t have to blog under our real names, if we don’t need to post pictures of our own faces, then we need not be inhibited by fears of embarrassment or humiliation. So long as nobody knows who we really are, we can expose our worst selves to the world without worrying about the consequences.
And that probably accounts for the kind of vitriol you seen spewed on the Net every day. People have no compunction about calling you names, prying into your private life, making pornographic propositions, and worse. And yet, I’m pretty convinced that if I met any of these angry, four-letter-word spewing folk in real life, they would be downright charming and lovely to my face (whatever they may think about me in the hidden recesses of their mind). But there is something about the facelessness of Net encounters that brings out the worst in people: which encourages them to explore the dark sides of their personalities; gives them license to indulge in behaviour they would not dream of in the real world.
But I digress. And to tell you the truth, by now the abuse leaves me cold, some of the name-calling is downright amusing and the pornographic elements are a bit of a yawn. What really intrigues me about social media on the Net is the kind of over-sharing of personal information that has become so commonplace that we scarcely notice it any longer.
Let’s not even venture into the downright freaky territory where a woman tweets her relief about having a miscarriage while in a board meeting at work – because now she needn’t worry about getting an abortion. Or even the surreal world in which a mother tweeted about her two-year old son’s accident – he was discovered lying at the bottom of the pool in their backyard – while he was still being revived. She then updated her page five hours later when he had been pronounced dead.
Frankly, it beggars belief that anyone could even be thinking of updating their social network pages at such a time. But clearly, we have become so hard-wired about sharing every aspect of our lives on these platforms, that nothing appears to be sacred – hell, even private – any longer.
Of course, there is an element of showing-off in the postings on these public platforms. People update their Blackberry profiles to add the name of whatever exotic location they find themselves in. Facebook is littered with photographs of other people’s glamorous vacations, dinner parties, childrens’ birthdays and the like so that the rest of us can exclaim over their picture-perfect lives (and wonder why we can’t afford to take off for a couple of weeks to the French countryside). And then, there is Twitter, where you can update everyone about everything from your last meal in a three-star Michelin restaurant to your journey back on Jet Airways First Class (complete with Twitpic of your private cabin).
But mostly it’s just mundane stuff that nobody in their right minds would give a toss about. Does anybody really care what you ate for breakfast; what your boss said to you at work; that your husband forgot your birthday yet again; that your cat has a fever; or that you are craving vanilla ice-cream as you type this.
Even your good friends would be hard-put to evince interest in this stuff, let alone relative strangers whom you hook up with on social networking sites. And yet this stream of consciousness style outpouring of personal – and sometimes very private – information continues to spew forth.
It’s almost as if people can’t help themselves. If something – anything – happens to them, it doesn’t seem real unless it has been shared with their virtual community. Rowing with your girlfriend? Tell her what a witch (or something that sounds awfully like that) she is on Twitter so that all your friends can weigh in on your side. The husband didn’t get you a nice enough present on Valentine’s Day? Shame him in front of the whole world. Bought a new pair of Manolo Blahniks? Post a picture so that your girlfriends can go green with envy.
But as I look at all these updates, the many tweets and posts, the photographs without end, I wonder who they are really meant for. Do any of us really care about the lives of those around us? Or are we so busy showing off about our own that we couldn’t care less about theirs?
We provide a plethora of information about ourselves on social media sites – but does anyone really care?
Was there ever a time when we knew so much about so many people at any given time – and cared so little? And by people I don’t just mean friends and family or even chance acquaintances who tag you on Facebook, but complete strangers whom we would not recognise if we bumped into them on the street outside. And yet we are privy to their most personal details, their most intimate moments, their deepest thoughts, their most heart-felt emotions. We may not know what they look like, we may not even know their real names, but their private passions and secret demons are laid bare for the scrutiny of all those who care to look (or read).
In some sense, the anonymity provided by the Internet has a certain liberating effect on all of us. If we don’t have to blog under our real names, if we don’t need to post pictures of our own faces, then we need not be inhibited by fears of embarrassment or humiliation. So long as nobody knows who we really are, we can expose our worst selves to the world without worrying about the consequences.
And that probably accounts for the kind of vitriol you seen spewed on the Net every day. People have no compunction about calling you names, prying into your private life, making pornographic propositions, and worse. And yet, I’m pretty convinced that if I met any of these angry, four-letter-word spewing folk in real life, they would be downright charming and lovely to my face (whatever they may think about me in the hidden recesses of their mind). But there is something about the facelessness of Net encounters that brings out the worst in people: which encourages them to explore the dark sides of their personalities; gives them license to indulge in behaviour they would not dream of in the real world.
But I digress. And to tell you the truth, by now the abuse leaves me cold, some of the name-calling is downright amusing and the pornographic elements are a bit of a yawn. What really intrigues me about social media on the Net is the kind of over-sharing of personal information that has become so commonplace that we scarcely notice it any longer.
Let’s not even venture into the downright freaky territory where a woman tweets her relief about having a miscarriage while in a board meeting at work – because now she needn’t worry about getting an abortion. Or even the surreal world in which a mother tweeted about her two-year old son’s accident – he was discovered lying at the bottom of the pool in their backyard – while he was still being revived. She then updated her page five hours later when he had been pronounced dead.
Frankly, it beggars belief that anyone could even be thinking of updating their social network pages at such a time. But clearly, we have become so hard-wired about sharing every aspect of our lives on these platforms, that nothing appears to be sacred – hell, even private – any longer.
Of course, there is an element of showing-off in the postings on these public platforms. People update their Blackberry profiles to add the name of whatever exotic location they find themselves in. Facebook is littered with photographs of other people’s glamorous vacations, dinner parties, childrens’ birthdays and the like so that the rest of us can exclaim over their picture-perfect lives (and wonder why we can’t afford to take off for a couple of weeks to the French countryside). And then, there is Twitter, where you can update everyone about everything from your last meal in a three-star Michelin restaurant to your journey back on Jet Airways First Class (complete with Twitpic of your private cabin).
But mostly it’s just mundane stuff that nobody in their right minds would give a toss about. Does anybody really care what you ate for breakfast; what your boss said to you at work; that your husband forgot your birthday yet again; that your cat has a fever; or that you are craving vanilla ice-cream as you type this.
Even your good friends would be hard-put to evince interest in this stuff, let alone relative strangers whom you hook up with on social networking sites. And yet this stream of consciousness style outpouring of personal – and sometimes very private – information continues to spew forth.
It’s almost as if people can’t help themselves. If something – anything – happens to them, it doesn’t seem real unless it has been shared with their virtual community. Rowing with your girlfriend? Tell her what a witch (or something that sounds awfully like that) she is on Twitter so that all your friends can weigh in on your side. The husband didn’t get you a nice enough present on Valentine’s Day? Shame him in front of the whole world. Bought a new pair of Manolo Blahniks? Post a picture so that your girlfriends can go green with envy.
But as I look at all these updates, the many tweets and posts, the photographs without end, I wonder who they are really meant for. Do any of us really care about the lives of those around us? Or are we so busy showing off about our own that we couldn’t care less about theirs?
Sunday, July 25, 2010
What’s not to hate?
There really can be no other honest reaction to smugness
When it comes to human vices, I have no problem getting on board with greed. After all, I can never say no to a second helping of chocolate cake, so who am I to judge? I can sympathise with the instinct to lie, because to tell you the truth, you need a bit of dishonesty to smoothen the wheels of social discourse. I have no quarrel with avarice because if we didn’t want more than we have, then we’d probably still be stuck in the Dark Ages. Bad temper I can cope with, because God knows I am no saint in that department. And I can make my peace with lust because without that the human race would have died out long ago.
There’s just one thing that I simply cannot stand: smugness.
There is something so smarmy and nasty about it that it gets my hackles up the moment it hoves into view. No sooner does it rear its ugly head in my vicinity than I want to tear it right off and shove it someplace where the sun never shines. Okay, so patience is not my strong suit, but seriously, what other honest reaction can you have to smugness?
I was reminded of this when I saw the holiday snaps of American President Obama and his lovely family on vacation in a natural park in Maine. There they were, the tall and handsome Barack, his slim and beautiful wife Michelle, and their two beautiful daughters, riding bikes, trekking up mountains, going for long walks, playing one sport or another. Frankly, it made me wonder when they found the time to catch their breath, let alone have an entire meal.
But the message behind all these photo-opportunities was clear. See, the Obamas seemed to be saying to all their fellow (obese) Americans, this is how a healthy family goes on holiday. And if you want to be as thin and beautiful as us, steer clear of those Happy Meals at McDonalds, stay away from those slot machines at Vegas, and for God’s sake, get off your fat backsides and do some exercise. You can skip like the First Lady, play basketball like the President or hula-hoop your way to fitness like Sasha and Malia. This is what you should be doing on holiday, not kicking back with a six-pack of beer and an oversized packet of crisps.
Now, tell me, how irritating is that? Isn’t it enough that we have to deal with picture-perfect photographs of celebrities and their fabulous lives? Do they have to shame us with images of their aerobicized annual vacations as well?
But while the smugness might begin with celebrities, it certainly doesn’t stop with them. It is alive and well and flourishing in your vicinity, thanks to your many friends, family members, casual acquaintances, neighbours and passing strangers.
It rears its ugly head with your sibling who can’t stop showing off about the fact that he is making double the money that you are; his kids are doing much better in school; his car is twice the size of yours; his house was recently re-modelled; and his wife is still hot enough to elicit admiring glances from the neighbourhood boys.
In the office, this smugness manifests itself in that co-worker who always manages to have his work ready ahead of time, drawing unnecessary attention to the fact that you have missed your deadline yet again. Or it could show up in the boss who is convinced that he is right about everything – and maddeningly enough, always is.
The sad truth is that there is simply no escaping smugness in our everyday lives. You will encounter it in the gym in the person of that hyper-fit young woman who insists on doing her stretches right in the middle of the room so that everyone can marvel at her contortionist ways. Or in that over-muscled man who grunts and groans away in the weights section so that no one can remain oblivious of the fact that he is bench-pressing double his body weight.
In the swimming pool, you will encounter the mandatory bikini babe who is there not to swim but to show off her perfectly-buffed frame. So, she spends all her time on the lounger, rubbing suntan lotion into her exfoliated, cellulite-free body, and adjusting her straps so that she tans evenly – while all the other women lunge for their bathrobes the moment they are out of the water.
Go shopping for groceries or vegetables and you will invariably be stuck behind someone who wants to know where the cherries or pears are from, whether they have any organic basmasti rice, and could they possibly rustle up some roasted snacks rather than all this deep-fried rubbish.
And I’m pretty sure that we all have the neighbour from hell, whose garden looks pristine no matter what the season, whose ficus is always doing better than ours, whose children never seem to break anyone’s windows when they play cricket, and whose wife manages to cook a hot dinner every night despite holding down a demanding job (and who can’t understand why you order in from Dominos quite so often).
The underlying message behind all this smugness – no matter how or where it manifests itself – is the same: “Hey, look, I am much better than you. And you couldn’t possibly be as healthy, slim, hard-working, successful, talented, rich or happy as I am, no matter how hard you tried.”
You tell me. What’s not to hate?
There really can be no other honest reaction to smugness
When it comes to human vices, I have no problem getting on board with greed. After all, I can never say no to a second helping of chocolate cake, so who am I to judge? I can sympathise with the instinct to lie, because to tell you the truth, you need a bit of dishonesty to smoothen the wheels of social discourse. I have no quarrel with avarice because if we didn’t want more than we have, then we’d probably still be stuck in the Dark Ages. Bad temper I can cope with, because God knows I am no saint in that department. And I can make my peace with lust because without that the human race would have died out long ago.
There’s just one thing that I simply cannot stand: smugness.
There is something so smarmy and nasty about it that it gets my hackles up the moment it hoves into view. No sooner does it rear its ugly head in my vicinity than I want to tear it right off and shove it someplace where the sun never shines. Okay, so patience is not my strong suit, but seriously, what other honest reaction can you have to smugness?
I was reminded of this when I saw the holiday snaps of American President Obama and his lovely family on vacation in a natural park in Maine. There they were, the tall and handsome Barack, his slim and beautiful wife Michelle, and their two beautiful daughters, riding bikes, trekking up mountains, going for long walks, playing one sport or another. Frankly, it made me wonder when they found the time to catch their breath, let alone have an entire meal.
But the message behind all these photo-opportunities was clear. See, the Obamas seemed to be saying to all their fellow (obese) Americans, this is how a healthy family goes on holiday. And if you want to be as thin and beautiful as us, steer clear of those Happy Meals at McDonalds, stay away from those slot machines at Vegas, and for God’s sake, get off your fat backsides and do some exercise. You can skip like the First Lady, play basketball like the President or hula-hoop your way to fitness like Sasha and Malia. This is what you should be doing on holiday, not kicking back with a six-pack of beer and an oversized packet of crisps.
Now, tell me, how irritating is that? Isn’t it enough that we have to deal with picture-perfect photographs of celebrities and their fabulous lives? Do they have to shame us with images of their aerobicized annual vacations as well?
But while the smugness might begin with celebrities, it certainly doesn’t stop with them. It is alive and well and flourishing in your vicinity, thanks to your many friends, family members, casual acquaintances, neighbours and passing strangers.
It rears its ugly head with your sibling who can’t stop showing off about the fact that he is making double the money that you are; his kids are doing much better in school; his car is twice the size of yours; his house was recently re-modelled; and his wife is still hot enough to elicit admiring glances from the neighbourhood boys.
In the office, this smugness manifests itself in that co-worker who always manages to have his work ready ahead of time, drawing unnecessary attention to the fact that you have missed your deadline yet again. Or it could show up in the boss who is convinced that he is right about everything – and maddeningly enough, always is.
The sad truth is that there is simply no escaping smugness in our everyday lives. You will encounter it in the gym in the person of that hyper-fit young woman who insists on doing her stretches right in the middle of the room so that everyone can marvel at her contortionist ways. Or in that over-muscled man who grunts and groans away in the weights section so that no one can remain oblivious of the fact that he is bench-pressing double his body weight.
In the swimming pool, you will encounter the mandatory bikini babe who is there not to swim but to show off her perfectly-buffed frame. So, she spends all her time on the lounger, rubbing suntan lotion into her exfoliated, cellulite-free body, and adjusting her straps so that she tans evenly – while all the other women lunge for their bathrobes the moment they are out of the water.
Go shopping for groceries or vegetables and you will invariably be stuck behind someone who wants to know where the cherries or pears are from, whether they have any organic basmasti rice, and could they possibly rustle up some roasted snacks rather than all this deep-fried rubbish.
And I’m pretty sure that we all have the neighbour from hell, whose garden looks pristine no matter what the season, whose ficus is always doing better than ours, whose children never seem to break anyone’s windows when they play cricket, and whose wife manages to cook a hot dinner every night despite holding down a demanding job (and who can’t understand why you order in from Dominos quite so often).
The underlying message behind all this smugness – no matter how or where it manifests itself – is the same: “Hey, look, I am much better than you. And you couldn’t possibly be as healthy, slim, hard-working, successful, talented, rich or happy as I am, no matter how hard you tried.”
You tell me. What’s not to hate?
Sunday, July 18, 2010
The battle of the sexes
We all agree that no means no; so let’s also accept that yes means yes
Over the last few weeks, I have been getting increasingly tired of the narrative of woman as eternal victim. It doesn’t matter if she is attractive, accomplished, talented, well-paid, successful, even famous. So long as she is a woman, victimhood is a cross that she must bear.
And what annoys me even further is that some women seem only too happy to play up to this stereotype when it suits them – and all too often it does.
If they aren’t hired for a job, it must be because of sexist reasons, not because they don’t have the necessary qualifications. If they don’t get a promotion, then it must be because they are women and the bosses are misogynistic so-and-sos. The idea that they may simply not be good enough does not factor in the welter of accusations. And if they are fired, then it must be because they resisted the sexual advances of the Big Bad Boss.
It is not my case the sexual harassment does not happen at the workplace. Of course it does, and women need to make a stand against it, just as companies need to be sensitised to their concerns. But it doesn’t really help any woman’s case when she only levels charges against her superior years after the event – and then only once she has been denied promotion or fired.
The David Davidar-Lisa Rundle affair (for want of a better word) is a case in point. Rundle sued Davidar for sexual harassment after working with him for three years, during which period they went out for meals, played tennis together, attended the theatre and travelled out of town on business. She spent time alone in his office watching Roger Federer on TV, she gave him gifts, he dropped her home. And yet, three years after this long and apparently consensual relationship, she sued him for sexual harassment.
Well, the Davidar-Rundle case has been settled out of court, with all parties signing a confidentiality agreement. So, we will never really know the truth of the matter. Did she really send him ‘cream-filled biscuits’? Did he really ‘force’ himself into her hotel room wearing ‘excessive cologne’? Was it a case of sexual harassment? Or was it a ‘consensual flirtatious relationship’ that went wrong?
But what bothers me about this whole affair is the assumption that any male who is in a position of authority over a female subordinate is ipso facto guilty of sexual harassment even if both parties were willing participants in the relationship.
Why should this be so? Why are we so unwilling to allow women the option of free will? Why are we so reluctant to believe that women can make decisions about their own sexual lives? Why can we not respect a woman as a mature adult who takes responsibility for her own life choices? Why is a woman’s word worth less than that of a man?
The feminist movement has spent many years fighting for the woman’s right to say no. And now, it is received wisdom that a woman has the right to say no to a man at any point. She can ask him up to her hotel room, she can make out with him, she may even invite him into her bed. But right until the moment of consummation she has the right to say no, and he has an obligation to respect that right.
No means no. We all accept that. And any man who does not and forces a woman into having sex is guilty of rape.
Well, my point is this: if no means no, then shouldn’t yes also mean yes?
If an adult woman willingly enters into a relationship with her male superior at work, then it is her choice. She has made her bed, as it were, and now she must lie in it. It should not matter that he is her boss, or that she reports to him, or even that he decides on her promotion.
If she consents to a relationship with him, whether or not it includes sex, there should be no suggestion of sexual harassment. Yes means yes.
You could argue that the man should not be entering into such relationships at the workplace. And his employers would be well within their rights to fire him for vitiating the atmosphere at work and for creating a conflict of interest.
But does the woman have a case of sexual harassment against him? I think not.
Yes mean yes. And every woman has the right to say no if she wants to.
It is specious to argue that often women have no choice but to give in to the sexual demands of their superiors. Frankly, if that’s what the workplace is reducing you to, then it is time to find another job. And the time to complain about being sexually harassed is when sexual advances are first made to you. Crying wolf several years after the event is just plain stupid – especially if you have consented to a relationship all along.
Women need to take responsibility for their own decisions if they want to be treated as equals at the workplace. They need to move their personal narratives beyond that of eternal victimhood. They need to understand that just as no means no, yes means yes. And which one of these words they utter is their choice – and one which they must exercise judiciously.
We all agree that no means no; so let’s also accept that yes means yes
Over the last few weeks, I have been getting increasingly tired of the narrative of woman as eternal victim. It doesn’t matter if she is attractive, accomplished, talented, well-paid, successful, even famous. So long as she is a woman, victimhood is a cross that she must bear.
And what annoys me even further is that some women seem only too happy to play up to this stereotype when it suits them – and all too often it does.
If they aren’t hired for a job, it must be because of sexist reasons, not because they don’t have the necessary qualifications. If they don’t get a promotion, then it must be because they are women and the bosses are misogynistic so-and-sos. The idea that they may simply not be good enough does not factor in the welter of accusations. And if they are fired, then it must be because they resisted the sexual advances of the Big Bad Boss.
It is not my case the sexual harassment does not happen at the workplace. Of course it does, and women need to make a stand against it, just as companies need to be sensitised to their concerns. But it doesn’t really help any woman’s case when she only levels charges against her superior years after the event – and then only once she has been denied promotion or fired.
The David Davidar-Lisa Rundle affair (for want of a better word) is a case in point. Rundle sued Davidar for sexual harassment after working with him for three years, during which period they went out for meals, played tennis together, attended the theatre and travelled out of town on business. She spent time alone in his office watching Roger Federer on TV, she gave him gifts, he dropped her home. And yet, three years after this long and apparently consensual relationship, she sued him for sexual harassment.
Well, the Davidar-Rundle case has been settled out of court, with all parties signing a confidentiality agreement. So, we will never really know the truth of the matter. Did she really send him ‘cream-filled biscuits’? Did he really ‘force’ himself into her hotel room wearing ‘excessive cologne’? Was it a case of sexual harassment? Or was it a ‘consensual flirtatious relationship’ that went wrong?
But what bothers me about this whole affair is the assumption that any male who is in a position of authority over a female subordinate is ipso facto guilty of sexual harassment even if both parties were willing participants in the relationship.
Why should this be so? Why are we so unwilling to allow women the option of free will? Why are we so reluctant to believe that women can make decisions about their own sexual lives? Why can we not respect a woman as a mature adult who takes responsibility for her own life choices? Why is a woman’s word worth less than that of a man?
The feminist movement has spent many years fighting for the woman’s right to say no. And now, it is received wisdom that a woman has the right to say no to a man at any point. She can ask him up to her hotel room, she can make out with him, she may even invite him into her bed. But right until the moment of consummation she has the right to say no, and he has an obligation to respect that right.
No means no. We all accept that. And any man who does not and forces a woman into having sex is guilty of rape.
Well, my point is this: if no means no, then shouldn’t yes also mean yes?
If an adult woman willingly enters into a relationship with her male superior at work, then it is her choice. She has made her bed, as it were, and now she must lie in it. It should not matter that he is her boss, or that she reports to him, or even that he decides on her promotion.
If she consents to a relationship with him, whether or not it includes sex, there should be no suggestion of sexual harassment. Yes means yes.
You could argue that the man should not be entering into such relationships at the workplace. And his employers would be well within their rights to fire him for vitiating the atmosphere at work and for creating a conflict of interest.
But does the woman have a case of sexual harassment against him? I think not.
Yes mean yes. And every woman has the right to say no if she wants to.
It is specious to argue that often women have no choice but to give in to the sexual demands of their superiors. Frankly, if that’s what the workplace is reducing you to, then it is time to find another job. And the time to complain about being sexually harassed is when sexual advances are first made to you. Crying wolf several years after the event is just plain stupid – especially if you have consented to a relationship all along.
Women need to take responsibility for their own decisions if they want to be treated as equals at the workplace. They need to move their personal narratives beyond that of eternal victimhood. They need to understand that just as no means no, yes means yes. And which one of these words they utter is their choice – and one which they must exercise judiciously.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Small is beautiful
It’s about time we phased out the Big Fat Indian wedding
There were many things that were heart-warming about the Mahendra Singh Dhoni-Sakshi Rawat love story. The fact that India’s cricket captain didn’t succumb to the blowsy charms of some six-feet-tall supermodel but fell for the cute girl next door. That both Mahi and Sakshi chose to conduct their relationship well below the radar, choosing privacy over publicity (so much so that few were even aware of Sakshi’s existence before the engagement announcement). But most heart-warming of all was the way in which they wed.
Not for them, the Big Fat Indian wedding of legend – though God knows Dhoni can afford it. Not for them, a lavish five-star, celebrity-studded affair in one of Bombay or Delhi’s swish hotels. Not for them, a celebration that lasts several weeks and takes in every scenic location in India that you can think of. Not for them, a lavishly-mounted theme wedding in a chateau in France, a villa in Italy, a chalet in Switzerland, or even a beach in the Caribbean.
No, when Dhoni decided to marry his long-term girlfriend, it was in the small town of Dehradun, where her folks stay and the ceremony itself was held in a modest little resort. The large police presence meant that the media was kept at a respectable distance. So, the only people privy to the proceedings were Mahi, Sakshi, their families and close friends who had flown down for the wedding. Which is exactly how it should be.
Of course, there were famous faces around. And how could it be otherwise, given Dhoni’s supersonic fame? But even here, due discretion was exercised on the guest list. R.P. Singh was in attendance; Yuvraj Singh was not (he tweeted rather lamely: “Got to know Mahi is getting married. Congratulations...”). Among the film crowd, only John Abraham – who has been close to Dhoni, advising him on his fitness and his hair-styles – was in attendance. There were none of the usual suspects – Shah Rukh Khan, Shilpa Shetty, Preity Zinta, et al – who generally litter such events.
And if you ask me, the wedding was much better for it. There were just 60 people in attendance from both sides of the family. There was no fancy DJ flown in from Morocco to regale the guests with Bhangra Rap. There were no rare vintages of French wines or cases of Dom Perignon waiting to be quaffed or even any Grey Goose or Belvedere. Instead, Dhoni kept his wedding an alcohol-free zone. And there were no camera crews in attendance recording every moment for the prime-time TV audience.
In other words, it was a dream wedding – the kind that revolves around the bride and groom and not around the thousands of celebrity attendees and what they are wearing.
I don’t know about you, but I am getting a bit tired of the overblown extravaganzas of excess that pass off as Indian weddings these days. Everyone is competing with the other to choose the most exotic locale, serve the most esoteric food, put on the most lavish entertainment, invite the maximum number of people. Everything must be on a grand scale: the flowers, the decor, the bride and bridegroom’s outfits. And with each one vying to out-do the other, the bar is raised so high that you can’t help but look ridiculous as you attempt to clear it.
NRI businessmen fly into India to take over entire resort properties to host over-the-top weddings for their sons. Only to be topped by industrialists who can afford to take over historical palaces in France to give their daughters a befitting send-off. Young couples whizz off to Florence and Barcelona – along with several thousand guests – just so they can marry in the city of their dreams. Honestly, it’s gotten so bad that if you host a wedding in near-by Thailand you are seen as letting the side down.
It all makes me long for the weddings of my childhood, which were simple, no-nonsense three-day affairs hosted by families in their homes, be they ever so humble. Everyone pitched in to help out with the organisation – relatives, friends, neighbours. And they all did it for love rather than a large pay cheque. Nobody worried too much about colour co-ordination, so long as the bride wore red. The food was plentiful rather than fancy. And the only exotic locales involved were those the happy couple chose for their honeymoon.
Not only were they cheaper to host but they were also more fun to attend. There was none of the anodyne decor so favoured by wedding planners, no designer outfits on display to put your own trusty Kanjeevaram to shame, and no surfeit of choice with endless buffet tables groaning with every cuisine known to man. You did a bit of lusty Punjabi-style dancing with the band, handed over your envelope to the happy couple, posed for a picture, tucked into your kebab (and sometimes sharab) and then departed before the interminable pheras got underway.
The feel was intimate; the mood was buoyant; the scale was perfect.
Which is why I think it is time we retired the Big Fat Indian Wedding, or better still gave it a decent burial so that it can’t come back and bite us in the bottom. Bring on the Small Thin Indian Wedding instead. Trust me, you will love it.
It’s about time we phased out the Big Fat Indian wedding
There were many things that were heart-warming about the Mahendra Singh Dhoni-Sakshi Rawat love story. The fact that India’s cricket captain didn’t succumb to the blowsy charms of some six-feet-tall supermodel but fell for the cute girl next door. That both Mahi and Sakshi chose to conduct their relationship well below the radar, choosing privacy over publicity (so much so that few were even aware of Sakshi’s existence before the engagement announcement). But most heart-warming of all was the way in which they wed.
Not for them, the Big Fat Indian wedding of legend – though God knows Dhoni can afford it. Not for them, a lavish five-star, celebrity-studded affair in one of Bombay or Delhi’s swish hotels. Not for them, a celebration that lasts several weeks and takes in every scenic location in India that you can think of. Not for them, a lavishly-mounted theme wedding in a chateau in France, a villa in Italy, a chalet in Switzerland, or even a beach in the Caribbean.
No, when Dhoni decided to marry his long-term girlfriend, it was in the small town of Dehradun, where her folks stay and the ceremony itself was held in a modest little resort. The large police presence meant that the media was kept at a respectable distance. So, the only people privy to the proceedings were Mahi, Sakshi, their families and close friends who had flown down for the wedding. Which is exactly how it should be.
Of course, there were famous faces around. And how could it be otherwise, given Dhoni’s supersonic fame? But even here, due discretion was exercised on the guest list. R.P. Singh was in attendance; Yuvraj Singh was not (he tweeted rather lamely: “Got to know Mahi is getting married. Congratulations...”). Among the film crowd, only John Abraham – who has been close to Dhoni, advising him on his fitness and his hair-styles – was in attendance. There were none of the usual suspects – Shah Rukh Khan, Shilpa Shetty, Preity Zinta, et al – who generally litter such events.
And if you ask me, the wedding was much better for it. There were just 60 people in attendance from both sides of the family. There was no fancy DJ flown in from Morocco to regale the guests with Bhangra Rap. There were no rare vintages of French wines or cases of Dom Perignon waiting to be quaffed or even any Grey Goose or Belvedere. Instead, Dhoni kept his wedding an alcohol-free zone. And there were no camera crews in attendance recording every moment for the prime-time TV audience.
In other words, it was a dream wedding – the kind that revolves around the bride and groom and not around the thousands of celebrity attendees and what they are wearing.
I don’t know about you, but I am getting a bit tired of the overblown extravaganzas of excess that pass off as Indian weddings these days. Everyone is competing with the other to choose the most exotic locale, serve the most esoteric food, put on the most lavish entertainment, invite the maximum number of people. Everything must be on a grand scale: the flowers, the decor, the bride and bridegroom’s outfits. And with each one vying to out-do the other, the bar is raised so high that you can’t help but look ridiculous as you attempt to clear it.
NRI businessmen fly into India to take over entire resort properties to host over-the-top weddings for their sons. Only to be topped by industrialists who can afford to take over historical palaces in France to give their daughters a befitting send-off. Young couples whizz off to Florence and Barcelona – along with several thousand guests – just so they can marry in the city of their dreams. Honestly, it’s gotten so bad that if you host a wedding in near-by Thailand you are seen as letting the side down.
It all makes me long for the weddings of my childhood, which were simple, no-nonsense three-day affairs hosted by families in their homes, be they ever so humble. Everyone pitched in to help out with the organisation – relatives, friends, neighbours. And they all did it for love rather than a large pay cheque. Nobody worried too much about colour co-ordination, so long as the bride wore red. The food was plentiful rather than fancy. And the only exotic locales involved were those the happy couple chose for their honeymoon.
Not only were they cheaper to host but they were also more fun to attend. There was none of the anodyne decor so favoured by wedding planners, no designer outfits on display to put your own trusty Kanjeevaram to shame, and no surfeit of choice with endless buffet tables groaning with every cuisine known to man. You did a bit of lusty Punjabi-style dancing with the band, handed over your envelope to the happy couple, posed for a picture, tucked into your kebab (and sometimes sharab) and then departed before the interminable pheras got underway.
The feel was intimate; the mood was buoyant; the scale was perfect.
Which is why I think it is time we retired the Big Fat Indian Wedding, or better still gave it a decent burial so that it can’t come back and bite us in the bottom. Bring on the Small Thin Indian Wedding instead. Trust me, you will love it.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
To sleep, perchance to dream...
Why sleep deprivation is such a modern malaise
Are you getting enough sleep? More to the point, are you getting enough deep sleep, the kind that really leaves you feeling like all’s well with the world? Or even REM (rapid eye movement) sleep, which marks the time when you dream? When you wake up, is it from a light sleep – which ensures that you are all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed – or from deep sleep, which makes you feel all groggy and grumpy?
You can now get these answers in the privacy of your own bedroom. All you need to do is buy the Zeo Personal Sleep Coach, a headband-type device that you slip over your head before you nod off which evaluates your sleep patterns and sends wireless signals through the night to a small monitor on your bedside table. The next morning, this neat little contraption will tell you how long you slept, what part of this was light sleep, how much deep sleep you managed, how many minutes of REM sleep you clocked up, and whether you woke up out of a light or deep sleep.
The idea presumably is that you can use this information to improve the quality of your sleep – and by extension, the quality of your life.
Because, as it turns out, sleep is really, really important to our lives. Our bodies repair themselves as we sleep, our cells rejuvenate, our systems reboot and recharge and our minds get refreshed. Miss out on your sleep and you could be setting yourself up for a mighty fall, both in physical and emotional terms.
The sleep-deprived are more likely to over-eat because it takes more calories for them to feel satiated. They crave carbohydrates more than those who have had a good night’s rest. They are at greater risk of obesity because lack of sleep also contributes to hormonal changes that can cause weight gain. They are, therefore, more likely to develop diabetes and are at greater risk of suffering a heart attack.
And that’s just the long-term effects. On a day-to-day basis, those who don’t get enough sleep cannot perform routine tasks at optimum levels because their concentration is shot to hell. This can have especially dangerous consequences if they are doing things like operating heavy machinery, driving along a busy highway or – the nightmare to beat all others – piloting an airplane. At an emotional level, lack of sleep can make people irritable, anti-social, short-tempered, disgruntled, and at extreme levels, can even lead to depression. And then there’s the embarrassment inherent in nodding off at that all-important client meeting
So, all things considered, lack of sleep is a dangerous thing. And yet, sleep deprivation is a fact of life, a very modern malaise that affects all of us. And yes, I do mean all of us.
There are the obvious candidates, of course. Mothers of young babies, who need to be fed, burped and changed every couple of hours, can often go for months, sometimes even years, without a good night’s sleep. People who work night shifts on a rotating basis often have trouble adjusting to new sleep cycles every fortnight or so. Party animals who carouse late into the night, drinking and dancing (though, on the whole, they tend to make it up by sleeping late into the afternoon). Students cramming for exams who take a little pharmaceutical help when they need to study until the early hours of the morning. And let’s not even get into bona fide insomniac territory, where people just cannot fall asleep no matter how many sheep they count.
But sleep deprivation is not just restricted to these people. It has become endemic in our times.
Most of us try to cram so much into our days that it is just impossible to schedule around eight hours of sleep as well. And medical researchers are now agreed that this is how much sleep we need – except for those genetic marvels who have some sort of gene mutation that means that they can get by with a scant four to five hours. But what with full-time jobs, caring for children and elderly parents, having an active social life, keeping up with all the soaps on TV and hitting the gym first thing in the morning, sometimes the one thing that gets sacrificed is a sleep.
I guess it all began with the invention of electric lights, which allowed people to stay up later and later into the night. If you no longer had to struggle to see beyond your nose by the dim light of a few candles or a couple of oil lamps, then there was much more incentive to stay up late, to say, read in bed or even work on your office accounts.
The advent of TV, not to mention the entry of the television set in the bedroom, has made us even more nocturnal creatures than before. Rare is the modern family which does not settle down in bed after dinner for an hour or three of TV viewing. And the Internet has made matters even worse, given the addictive quality to net-surfing. Bung in a couple of Blackberries into the mix, with their ready access to Facebook and Twitter, and you can bid goodbye to a good night’s rest.
All of which has led us to becoming a generation that is chronically sleep-deprived. And I think it’s about time we started to lose some sleep over this.
Why sleep deprivation is such a modern malaise
Are you getting enough sleep? More to the point, are you getting enough deep sleep, the kind that really leaves you feeling like all’s well with the world? Or even REM (rapid eye movement) sleep, which marks the time when you dream? When you wake up, is it from a light sleep – which ensures that you are all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed – or from deep sleep, which makes you feel all groggy and grumpy?
You can now get these answers in the privacy of your own bedroom. All you need to do is buy the Zeo Personal Sleep Coach, a headband-type device that you slip over your head before you nod off which evaluates your sleep patterns and sends wireless signals through the night to a small monitor on your bedside table. The next morning, this neat little contraption will tell you how long you slept, what part of this was light sleep, how much deep sleep you managed, how many minutes of REM sleep you clocked up, and whether you woke up out of a light or deep sleep.
The idea presumably is that you can use this information to improve the quality of your sleep – and by extension, the quality of your life.
Because, as it turns out, sleep is really, really important to our lives. Our bodies repair themselves as we sleep, our cells rejuvenate, our systems reboot and recharge and our minds get refreshed. Miss out on your sleep and you could be setting yourself up for a mighty fall, both in physical and emotional terms.
The sleep-deprived are more likely to over-eat because it takes more calories for them to feel satiated. They crave carbohydrates more than those who have had a good night’s rest. They are at greater risk of obesity because lack of sleep also contributes to hormonal changes that can cause weight gain. They are, therefore, more likely to develop diabetes and are at greater risk of suffering a heart attack.
And that’s just the long-term effects. On a day-to-day basis, those who don’t get enough sleep cannot perform routine tasks at optimum levels because their concentration is shot to hell. This can have especially dangerous consequences if they are doing things like operating heavy machinery, driving along a busy highway or – the nightmare to beat all others – piloting an airplane. At an emotional level, lack of sleep can make people irritable, anti-social, short-tempered, disgruntled, and at extreme levels, can even lead to depression. And then there’s the embarrassment inherent in nodding off at that all-important client meeting
So, all things considered, lack of sleep is a dangerous thing. And yet, sleep deprivation is a fact of life, a very modern malaise that affects all of us. And yes, I do mean all of us.
There are the obvious candidates, of course. Mothers of young babies, who need to be fed, burped and changed every couple of hours, can often go for months, sometimes even years, without a good night’s sleep. People who work night shifts on a rotating basis often have trouble adjusting to new sleep cycles every fortnight or so. Party animals who carouse late into the night, drinking and dancing (though, on the whole, they tend to make it up by sleeping late into the afternoon). Students cramming for exams who take a little pharmaceutical help when they need to study until the early hours of the morning. And let’s not even get into bona fide insomniac territory, where people just cannot fall asleep no matter how many sheep they count.
But sleep deprivation is not just restricted to these people. It has become endemic in our times.
Most of us try to cram so much into our days that it is just impossible to schedule around eight hours of sleep as well. And medical researchers are now agreed that this is how much sleep we need – except for those genetic marvels who have some sort of gene mutation that means that they can get by with a scant four to five hours. But what with full-time jobs, caring for children and elderly parents, having an active social life, keeping up with all the soaps on TV and hitting the gym first thing in the morning, sometimes the one thing that gets sacrificed is a sleep.
I guess it all began with the invention of electric lights, which allowed people to stay up later and later into the night. If you no longer had to struggle to see beyond your nose by the dim light of a few candles or a couple of oil lamps, then there was much more incentive to stay up late, to say, read in bed or even work on your office accounts.
The advent of TV, not to mention the entry of the television set in the bedroom, has made us even more nocturnal creatures than before. Rare is the modern family which does not settle down in bed after dinner for an hour or three of TV viewing. And the Internet has made matters even worse, given the addictive quality to net-surfing. Bung in a couple of Blackberries into the mix, with their ready access to Facebook and Twitter, and you can bid goodbye to a good night’s rest.
All of which has led us to becoming a generation that is chronically sleep-deprived. And I think it’s about time we started to lose some sleep over this.
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