I cannot say I wasn’t warned.
It wouldn’t be all fun and games, they said, there would be a lot of work involved. A big load of responsibility. A cramp on our lifestyle. As parents of grown children, we could finally have the freedom we had sometimes yearned for during those endless years of child-rearing. The flexibility and luxury to do things spontaneously, a dinner out, a quick jaunt to a fun destination. Family members suggested that this was probably some mid-life crisis, that I should calmly breathe my way out of it and then take a quick trip somewhere to show myself what I would be denying myself.
But here’s what they didn’t foresee:
That I would say that the greatest of the Chola kings was Roger-Roger Cholan. Or that I would sing about Sri Roger-Gopala. Or babble something about Roger-Rojeshwari. Or that I would twirl around to a rousing rendition of Roger! Rogerthi Roger! to the appalled horror of my family who thought they had seen the worst of what I could be.
They should have known, teetering as I was on the edges of err…dottiness… that I would not enter into this thing in a calm, level-headed manner as befitted a middle-aged lady of a certain vintage. That I would lose my heart and what precious little remained of my sanity so completely, so hopelessly.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I know your patience is wearing thin. Enough of this meaningless drivel.