icyhighs

icyhighs
Location
Bombay, Bombay, India
Birthday
December 31
Bio
Icy Highs is the writerly alter ego of Tharun James Jimani, author of 90s pop culture novel, 'Cough Syrup Surrealism' (Fingerprint! Publishing, 2013). He has lived in Chennai, Glasgow, Dusseldorf, London and Singapore over the last twelve years, and is- in Animal Planet parlance- a 'serial immigrant', and averse to nesting. He writes to keep the moss from gathering.

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FEBRUARY 14, 2013 2:30AM

My Anarchist Valentine

Rate: 11 Flag

Girlfriend and I had the Conversation a few weeks after we started going steady.

“Christmas?” I said.

“No,” she said.

“Me neither. New Year’s?”

"Passé"

“Ok good, birthdays?” I ask.

“Remember to wish me. No gifts, maybe dinner, nothing fancy,” she said.

“Same. Valentine's Day?”

“Bleuuurrgghhh.”


The consensus was clear: neither of us were big on Days. We were united by our common disenfranchisement with the consumerist practice of hyping up dates into ‘days’, and were destined to live happily –if frugally- ever after. Except I was lying through my teeth. It was one of those white lies you say when you’re still trying to get into someone’s pants (“Birthdays? Oh, who gives a fuck, right?”), but it had somehow mothballed into a philosophy.  Besides how many men readily accept they’re suckers for romance?


Which is why this conversation with my boss would be especially difficult. After fretting for weeks about how to bring up the topic of doing something special for Valentine’s Day, I found out a few hours before Cinderella-time that Girlfriend is in fact on suspension for the next couple of days for picketing her employer’s annual ball. The placard she help up outside the venue seemed to indicate that she thought a 25th anniversary bash for a multi-million dollar company was a tad bourgeois. Or as she worded it, succinctly as always: “DIE, CAPITALIST CUNTS!”


“So why do you want leave the next couple of days again?” asks my boss.

“Well my girlfriend’s some sort of political ninja, and it’s Valentine’s Day and…”

“I see,” he says, “so?”

I look at him for signs of smugness, of bastardry, but he appears genuinely puzzled. Fuck, I realize with a shock, Boss-man is a true blue alpha male. He really doesn't get Valentine's Day! He's who I pretend to be to get laid! I man up and try to explain. 


"See Boss-man," I say, "when a man loves a woman..."

"Yes?"

"Well, sometimes when a man loves a woman, you pick up... infections."

"Like an STD?" he grimaces. 

"Yeah. It's Girlfriend. I think she's cheating on me."

"Wow," he says, "what a bitch."

HEY! Enough is enough. NObody calls Girlfriend a bitch. 

"No, no," I say, "it's not her fault. I think I might suck a little in bed." 

"Well that makes sense," he says, "she didn't seem the type."

"Yeah," I say, and take in the scene again. 


"Boss-man," I say, "why's your finger on the intercom?"

Guffaws and laughter and hoots from across the office erupt through the intercom and fill Boss-man's cubicle as he says, smugly, bastardly, "There are two things you never admit to as a man: not making your woman happy in bed, and..." -the smug bastard is laughing so hard he can't even complete the sentence- "celebrating Valentine's Day."


Two days paid leave in hand, I go to Girlfriend's place to lick my wounds and die a slow, unmanly death. But Girlfriend is in no mood for inactivity. "Come on to the terrace," she says, "let's fire up a joint and chill." I slip into my sickday pajamas and trundle over to the terrace. I'm shocked and awed. Girlfriend has strung up the Christmas lights we never used. There's a table and two chairs in the middle, candlelight, a bottle of wine and what looks suspiciously like the tub of mango ice cream she had had delivered home last week to help me get over Crazy, Stupid Love. Damn Ryan Gosling and his bedroom eyes.  


"You thought I forgot, didn't you?" she says quietly.

"Forgot what?" I say.

"Today's Valentine's Day, silly," she says and nuzzles me under my chin.


I'm touched. I'm loved up and mushy and.. try as I might, just can't seem to stop myself from bursting her bubble.



"Baby," I say, "this is very sweet but Valentine's Day is tomorrow. The 14th of February."

"Fuck you, baby" she says, "it's today, the 13th. That's why it's an unlucky number."

"You think Valentine's Day falls on the 13th coz it's traditionally an unlucky number?"

"Doh," she says, "the 'number of the beast' and all."

I'm speechless. The number of the beast? 


"You don't like?" she says, dipping a spoon into the ice cream.

I can't bear to break this to her. I decide Dates don't matter after all. 

"I love it," I say earnestly, " I love you. This is the best Valentine's Day ever." 


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Comments

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Delicious.. HAPPY VALENTINES DAY
HUGGGGGGGGGG
oh now. i am so happy you got a good girl.

dont just wish her happy birthday, either.

christmas lights, i like that.
awwww...man, you got it bad...no wonder. she sounds delightful. Sally forth, my friend!
Happy Valentine's Day you romantic you.
Although I have no doubt that Girlfriend's employer is a Capitalist Cunt, I admire her guts (or streak of occupational suicide) for her, um, robust method of conveying the opinion.
Mango ice cream melting off of the spoon. Oh that sounds yummy.
Hey Linda,
Belated but happy valentines day to you too! :)

Daisyjane! That's good advice, and I see you're a fan of them christmas lights too. Hope you had a good one.

Hi Emily, that sounds about right, thanks!

JL! I plead guilty. and happy valentines day to you too. :)

Stim, yeah she's a real charmer.

(J) Phyllis, how ya been? And yeah, love the stuff; personal favourite.
Your boss is right. Also, if your girlfriend sets up a romantic Valentine's night on the wrong date, don't correct, seize the moment and her. R
I try, JoeBono, I try.
Sir, i admire you for revealing the various humiliations and wussy-boy predilictions you experience.
Me? I create an uber-male persona to throw off my readers.
You are sort of the Indian Woody Allen of the 21st century.
You perfectly sum up my philosophy
(when i am not getting laid regularly):
"united by our common disenfranchisement with the consumerist practice of hyping up dates into ‘days’"
~
ah but when Cupid's arrow hits, its wussy-boy poison gets into my blood .