No autographs please...

Every so often I get a glimpse of what it's like to be married to a celebrity:

Once, we'd crawled out of bed mid-afternoon on a lazy Sunday and made our way by motorcycle through the heat and traffic to the big Bangalore garden, Lalbagh, and I was looking forward to a quiet hideout in the shade somewhere, lounging with my darling (who was not yet my husband). Instead, before we could even get off the bike we were engulfed by the screeching, giggling contents of one tour bus full of little children, followed instantly by the outflow of yet another tour bus, this one populated by grown men.
All of them stood around H and I twittering and buzzing among themselves, trying to place him, trying to figure out who he was.
Our weak attempts at shooing them off only brought them closer, until the park with its arboretum, flower gardens, and pathetic aquarium full of terminal fish no longer interested them. H was the center of attention.
I extricated myself from the middle of the dustbowl thrown up in the parking lot by the frenzy and watched, half amused, half jealous pouty face, as H handled the crowd and sweetly allowed some of them to snap a photo with him even though he'd assured them time and again that they did not recognize him from anywhere.

I'm not necessarily a high maintenance kind of girl - it takes me about an hour start to finish to be ready to go out somewhere - but how is it fair that he can wake up with messy hair and a smile and look gorgeous enough to inspire an impromptu fan club at every corner and red light - but I wake up with messy hair and a smile and I look like I really need that hour.

Cue jealous pouty face.