Issh-tyle Uncheck.

Once upon a time, there were a group of girls who used to love doing things 16-year-old girls love doing; make-up, chocolate and rating boys.
These girls were over-critical of every single person who walked around.
'Ew, he's a 2.' 'A 2? Minus 2, more like!' 'Those pants. Those sad, sad pants meant to be thrown out in 1995. ' 'Okay, fake Gucci, fake Gucci, 5 o' clock position.'

Comments like these were part of their regular conversation.
And one day, these girls graduated from aforementioned Snob School and went on to universities to become engineers, architects, engineers, engineers, quacks and engineers. And the quack would be me. (Poli Daaktar).

On the first day of Quack School (fine, Medical College), I cried. Called my friends on conference call, and cried that I went to a Lower socio-economic Society college whilst they went to Anna, MCC and the like. My friends wondered aloud that LS people couldn't afford the daylight-robbery, over-exorbitant fee. And that I should give it another try. If only because the whopping capitation fee was non-refundable.

The crying was set off by the first person I saw in the classroom. This squint-eyed girl who had a white plastic flower on her hair, the kind you buy in Ranganathan street for two bucks (fine, five bucks). She sat in front of me, beads of sweat dotting her upper lip and forehead, taking notes diligently and she was blissfully unaware of her Body Odour.
I mentally switched off my olfactory receptors and turned to the Guys section. And immediately regretted it.
Guy 1: belonged in the '70s. White Jeetendra pants, pink-and-green shirt and a mullet hair cut.
Guy 2: I call him Ramarajan now. Self-explanatory. Chessboard shirt, with red and yellow squares instead of white and black squares. Karuppu MGR, I decided.
Guy 3: wore those kari-kadai bai (muslim butcher) blue-handkerchief as a bandana.
Guy 4, couldn't bear to see for another second. Ghastly memories.

Not that I claim that Vogue is my fashion bible or that I haven't had my fair share of bad hair days. I've been known to wear green eyeshadow to the operation theatre. And gaudy scarves, maroon lipstick, pink glitter in my hair...

Atleast I don't go around pretending I'm the height of cool. These people genuinely think they're hot/kool dukes (I'm guessing that means cool dudes.)

But I've gotten used to it now (if I can tolerate the meals plate in the dilaptated canteen, ANYTHING is possible).
I don't have to worry about my unwaxed arms. Or my flyaway hair. Or ugly salwars bought in the tenth standard. Or the calories in the bun-butter-jam (that's what you get in the rural area
where my crappy college is situated.)

Nothing matters much. I've let go of so many notions, pet peeves, idiosyncracies.

Just like I'm letting go of this post.