It's Valentine's Day
Dance with me fat boy
February 15, 2002
Yesterday was Valentine's Day. We went for a meal and as is usual, downed a bottle
of wine between us before arriving home at around midnight. Now I consider myself
a liberal intellectual and have no objections to women drinking. I do, however, have
a slight issue with Varinder having even one glass of wine. Varinder becomes -- how
can I put this delicately -- demanding.
We arrived home and my stomach felt bloated. In fact my 40 inch waist was throbbing
after so much rich food (Atkins diet went down the pan months ago) and I had to undo
my belt to get into the back of the taxi. My eye lids felt heavy and the thought
of flopping into our warm bed to sleep the drink off was all that occupied my mind.
Varinder, however, had other ideas.
I walked into the kitchen, kicked my shoes off and threw
my shirt and trousers into the washing machine -- something I do every night before
going upstairs to bed. As I threw my shirt into the machine, it happened. The alcohol
had clearly reached the part of her brain which triggers her impulsiveness. Her favourite
Arabic music CD (bought from an Iranian music shop in LA) suddenly started playing
at FULL volume.
On hearing the music I made a futile dash for the stairs. It was no good. She caught
me by the elastic waist of my underpants from behind, making my eyes bulge out and
"Dance with me fat boy."
"Honey please let's go to bed..."
"Its Valentine's Day!"
"Not any more -- it's past midnight."
It was no good. She started dancing around my semi naked body (just underpants and
socks) moving her arms over my head.
"Dance!" she snapped!
I started a half-hearted attempt at "Bandari", shoulder shaking, dancing
but it was no good. My shoulder remained motionless and instead, my stomach shook.Varinder's
dancing became more wild and she changed gear to full speed belly dancing (inspired
by my shaking stomach?)
"Honey, the neighbours can see..."
"They'll be in bed by now -- shut up and dance."
Twenty minutes had elapsed and I was falling asleep on my feet. Varinder, in stark
contrast, looked like she was under the influence of a class A drug. She was doing
the most amazing impression of a professional belly dancer I had ever seen her do.
Occasionally, she would also grab my hand and make me do a reluctant twirl. Next
thing I knew and she had changed CD's to play a Bollywood sound tracks album.
"Honey, please..." I pleaded.
"Okay, just one more song then we'll go up to bed."
Being the last song I decided to give it my all. I began moving around her like John
Travolta -- shuffling my feet and swinging my arms to the rhythm. Varinder stopped
in her tracks:
"What are you doing?"
"No, that's called squashing ants."
The song ended and I realised I had been shamelessly lied to. She wanted me to dance
the next song too. In fact, one hour and twenty minutes later and I was feeling so
exhausted I actually felt angry. My beautiful Varinder was in her own world of the
Bollywood film star. She danced flirtatiously but shyly (just like in the Indian
movies) around me as I did a more gentle version of my shuffle.
"Roll your feet onto the floor - don't stomp!"
I tried to dance as she said but was too far gone to care. When we finally got to
bed I was too tired to brush my teeth or take my socks off.
And all it had taken was a couple of glasses of white Chablis. Be warned.