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If you’re squeamish, read no more. I was wearing slippers, and getting into the front seat of my car. My foot slipped, and my toe banged against the accelerator pedal. I felt agonizing pain for a second, and looked down to find my toe a bloody mess. I staggered back into the elevator and up to my apartment, where I almost passed out from the pain. A quick wash revealed that the toenail on my big toe had been cracked in half, and the nail bed had been cut as well. I bandaged it as best I could, hoping that it would eventually heal. It didn’t and my doctor recommended that the best course of action would be to remove the nail entirely. I put off the procedure as long as possible, but finally it became clear that there was no other option. Unbeknownst to my family or doctor, I swallowed a bunch of painkillers in a bid to take the edge off, and then headed for the clinic. The actual procedure was quite anti-climatic; an anesthetic was injected directly into the toe and the nail was out before I knew it. I was unable to wear shoes for a month or so, but other than that, everything was back to normal in a few days.

I realised I had a double chin only when my colleague SS brought it to my notice. After constant taunting, and reminding, I decided to sign up for a Face Yoga class. This involved contorting my face into a series of strange expressions, but apparently it works! And as my instructor tells me, it's all the rage in New York!

After four classes, I saw a marked difference, but after four doughnuts, I was back to square one. My new solution: Ignore taunting colleague in next cubicle.

So I was in a bit of a funk—college wasn’t quite working out, my love life had been marred by girl trouble for the better part of a year, and I had lost interest in the things I usually derived satisfaction from. I went to see a psychotherapist, but all that talk, talk, talk did nothing for me. Finally, on the recommendation of a relative, I went to see Dr. K, a well-known psychiatrist. A quick personality inventory diagnosed a mild depression, and he recommended medication to help break me out of my rut. So he started me on a popular SSRI (Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor), which work by increasing the amount of serotonin, an important neurotransmitter involved in the chemistry of pleasure and happiness, in the brain by reducing its uptake. He started me out on a small daily dose, and then amped it up to almost double the initial prescription.

Soon, I began to notice a change—I had more energy, and was far more “out and about” than before. I also began to work out again, and the drop in weight made me feel even better.  There was, however, one unfortunate incident. The good doctor had warned me that alcohol and the medication did not mix, and for the most part, I had abstained—I wasn’t much of a drinker in any case.

One night, however, it was a friend’s birthday, and I had some wine and champagne. Before I knew it, the room was swimming, I couldn’t stand straight, and was slurring. I managed to get to my friend’s room without drawing too much attention to myself, gulped down a gallon or two of water, and headed back in. The party was winding down anyways, and I loitered for a couple hours before driving home, a lesson well learnt. Soon after, my shrink decided that I didn’t need the meds anymore, and took me off them. I actually missed that little green pill—waking up every morning feeling like a tiger was actually fun!