The Mojo & The Mundane
Somewhere between retiring and returning home; between becoming a pensioner and a forever-stay-at-home wife and mom, I slowly lost my marbles, my mojo, and the Nariman who kicked ass on the daily. It took all of nine months to strip away the layers built over decades, leaving behind a blank, albeit older, slate. Is it comfort that has dulled me? Is it boredom? Or is it the stubborn grey hair sprouting like weeds, abundant and rampant across my head, often accompanied by headaches and that peculiar heaviness that settles into your bones? Or is it the belly fat refusing to budge, rounded and protruding despite shapewear and all sorts of desperate measures? Enter the heavy breasts resting low against the ribs, until somehow nothing fits quite right anymore. Reining in the sensual is easy when you start to believe your days of being sexy are over. Especially when you turn into the pensioners’ bay at the mall and exit the car with dodgy knees and hips that crackle like crisp packets i...
