I’d like to say hello to people kind enough to read this, this is my first blog post. Please bear with me, this will get interesting with practice.
Originally I wanted to share something a bit more staid, but for the first post I thought something on the lighter side might be better. Well, when we moved to Doha in August things got off to a rocky start. We thought we would end up in a house, but ended up in hotel ( a really nice one my husband kept reminding us, but still a hotel was my retort). We would try desperately try to find things that reminded us of Pakistan, (we moved here from Jeddah which is essentially like a mini Pakistan anyway, you can hardly move a few feet without finding Pakistani items or people, even the dirt on the roads is similar to Pakistan and in ample supply along with the bugs that could just as easily have been directly imported from Pakistan such as the beige colored lizards or the huge cock roaches that seem to bring out the screams in teenage girls or the endless supply of ants). Milk shortage drove me nuts, and literally day and night I missed the 2 litre bottles of Al-Marai that I would ask my driver to buy and at that point in time seemed very minute. However, when I had to contend with Iranian milk, Turkish milk, British milk at prices that could have purchased gold in cheaper times, I was not pleased. Plus I am extremely particular about the taste of my tea and the long life milk wasn’t cutting it. Actually, at that time not much was cutting it for me in Doha. I missed Aslam, our driver of four years who practically did all the outside work for us, I missed my apartment, my friends, Mecca and Medina, I missed my life. The one time I just about screamed in excitement was when I spotted a soon-to-open Khaadi sign in Doha Festival City. For those of you who are not Pakistani, Khaadi is a nice, upscale clothing brand based in Pakistan. But just like a first born that goes over its due date, that Khaadi shop wasn’t opening and anticipation was excruciating . I would go again and again and no Khaadi. One day, it opened, finally.
Well, I went there last week and purchased two short shirts after much pondering because even though short shirts have been in fashion since last year, I was hesitant due to some extra pounds that I haven’t managed to shake off after I stopped breastfeeding, (even though I stopped feeding the baby I couldn’t stop eating as if I was still on a feeding routine. Although its impossible and bone draining, I have wished on occasion that breastfeeding could be done indefinitely). Well anyway, one shirt is straight, red and looks cute-ish (as my 15 year old daughter would put it) but the neck line is something else. It’s the other one that is my undoing, its A-line and goes up to my knees and fully closed on the sides. It is as if a giant sponge is carrying a television on its head, it squashes my height, makes me appear about twenty pounds heavier than I am, and it makes my waste line appear as wide as a sumo wrestler’s. I am never wearing this shirt in public, only in the privacy of my room by myself will I put on this hideous monument to my own stupidity. Furthermore, I have decided that this was the last time I saluted the latest fashion trend, never again. I was made for long shirts and no short shirts ever again. I think time will dull the psychological trauma of the frock shirt.