A Bumper Crop of Hair

'Twas a typical Sunday afternoon.

Lazy and somnolent, laidback and staid.

Lunch was being consumed at a leisurely pace in a restaurant that had as it's motto that admirable Latin phrase, Festina Lente. Pleasant and unhurried thoughts of an afternoon spent dozing were floating at the back of the mind, and all in all, it was all as it should be. Zzzzzz types, if you know what I mean.

And in walked this beautiful lady, all wonderfully curvaceous and, well, bomb material.

And in the manner of guys the world over, GT and I glanced at her, glanced at each other and then proceeded to stare at her open mouthed until she passed out of sight.

The Holy Sabbath Special that had been dished out for our appraisal was on the wrong side of 30 by a decidedly wide margin... not that it detracted in any way from her oomph quotient... which was certainly in the blow-the-thermometer-wide-open range... but a young belle she certainly was not.

And with that reference to context firmly established, we proceed to the nub of the whole thing.

GT turns to me, quizzical smile on visage.

"Y'know, I think it's come to a stage where I prefer older women."

Me yawns, slurps down some more iced tea, and thinks of neither this nor that.

Having neither this nor that to think about, me turns to GT and asks, "When you say old, how old do you mean?"

Without thinking about it, that blasted excuse for a bag of bones says, "Ehhhh, I dunno... 25-30, I guess".

And having thought about it, this blasted excuse for a lot more than a bag of bones turns a horror stricken face towards b.e.f.a.b.o.b.

"Dude! That's not old... that's us!"

Yes, ladies and gentlemen (and by ladies and gentlemen, I mean my peers. People older than I are fuddy-duddies, and people younger than I have the curse and the wrath of Kulkarni upon them), we are now part of the quarter life crisis brigade. We have the money, and we have the job. We have the I-pods and we have the bikes. But Youth, that fair maiden of the days gone by, has broken up with us.

Age is catching up fast. Two hours of tennis looks to be a bit difficult, and you can't chug all the beer you used to. The ideal activity on a Saturday evening is a movie at home, and there are times when you end up having Dal Fry and Plain Rice for dinner.

Out of choice.

That and all that is acceptable. What is NOT are slanderous untruths.

Ashish Kulkarni, peoples, is not balding. He has a full, magnificent, wavy, sleek, black crop of hair, and anyone who suggests otherwise is a lying son of a lady dog, so there.

When... or rather, given the drought in this department, if and when Kulkarni gets a girlfriend, he'll have "thinning hair". That's right, the official party line then will be "Yeah.... getting on man... I've got a girlfriend. Oh, and I also have thinning hair."

And if the unfortunate day finally arrives when self and to be spouse traipse down the merry path of helly matrimony... then, on that day, I'll be balding.

But up and until those points in time, hear this, and hear this clearly.

I am NOT balding.

Yeah.

Part II of the Same Blog Post:

That was supposed to have been all for the day. That is where the camera pans out, the credits roll, and the dazed audience springs to it's feet and lauds yet another astonishing performance by Kulkarni in the blog writing department.

Change of plan, though.

GT's down with fever.

(Sympathetic clicking of tongues on cue, plis. Thankoo)

He's got rashes on his legs.

(More s.c.o.t.)

He's got a variant of the 'flu.

It's called Infectious Mononucleosis.

Also known as (sharp intake of breath, the rolls of the drum, and the wait for the climax)...

Also known as... "Kissing Disease"

GT's got the Kissing Disease. The fever, or the Kissing Disease, will subside in a few days, or so the doctors say. But until then, GT boy is caught up with Kissing Fever.

Ooh.

We've got our own Freddie Mercury.