30something asanas

No achievements to boast of at 38? trimming the belly helps

Text message from girlfriend Jane, November 10, 9.37 am: "Enjoy your last day of 37! 38 has a good ring to it, it's all circles and joined up bits, not jagged and hard to fit together like 37. 37 prepares you for 38!"

It made me feel better about marking 38 years since the day I was born in a Tehran hospital. A tender age, it is knocking on 40 if not pounding to get in and see what it's like on the other side. Since last Friday, I've been punishing myself for reaching this age without having designed the Eiffel Tower (Gustave Eiffel was ahead of me on that), or come up with the idea for Google.

Ideally, I'd have created something by now that extracts money from Japanese and American tourists with the ease that La Tour does. Instead, I've rented out my apartment and moved into the parental home where I feel 18 again.

Back then I was an idiot and didn't know anything. Today, I'm less of an idiot but still don't know anything. A few months back I saw a film about a bachelor in his fifties who lives with his motheru00a0Italian director Gianni Di Gregorio's Mid-August Lunch (Pranzo Di Ferragosto) won the Satayajit Ray award at the London Film Festival last year. It was a fantastic, touching film and made me feel better about my temporary living arrangements. After all, it can be tricky.

"What time are you leaving the house?" my mum said to me this morning assuming that I planned to do anything but stay indoors wearing an apron, in my boxer shorts, at the computer.

"Why?" I said.

"It's just a question, God, you can't ask a question without a row in this place."

"Mum, I'm not going out. I have a hair to pull out for not having invented anything that might serve humanity. Although if the Eiffel Tower was my idea I'd distribute the takings to the poor with a bit saved for maintenance because a structure of that size is going to need some polishing."

"I just asked for a lift," said mum, "I lost my bus pass."

In London, when you're 60, as I will be in 22 years if I don't slit my wrists before (which I will do if I don't move out soon), Her Majesty's government issues you with a Freedom Pass that allows you complimentary travel on the city's extortionately priced buses and trains.

"Mum, then you'll have to pay u00a36 (Rs 460) so you won't forget it next time."

"Thanks," she said. "You can't say anything in this house."

There I was washing dishes (we have to do our own in London) and being rude to the woman who gave birth to me 38 years ago. In her home. (Of course, in the end I did give her a lift.)

Regular readers of this column will know that some weeks ago I joked that I had trouble seeing the floor because of the size of my belly.

What I didn't reveal was that I was in the office when my trouser button popped and I took the train home clutching a newspaper to cover the hand holding everything up. I felt terrible that day and decided that I didn't want to turn 38, resembling the "3" in profile and the "8" head-on.

So I decided to immerse myself in yoga which, forgive me for sounding like a weight-loss advert, has helped control the belly. The struggle, however, will continue. In 2001, we were told the Taliban had been defeated. Now it seems, not only are they alive and well but that Nato attacked the wrong country it is Pakistan that is the hub of international terror.

Unlike the US, however, I am not declaring victory over my belly, it's merely a small step for mankind and a big one for me. And I won't worry too much about not having built the Taj Mahal (it's already done). Who knows, perhaps Gustave Eiffel went to his grave thinking, "What have I done with my life except assemble a tower of steel that Japanese tourists and women from Kuwait who can barely see out of their burqas will pay to ride up, in a lift?"

Jagged or otherwise, we have to embrace the changes in our figures, numerically and physically. There is no choice.