I have been taking this kinda crazy Iron Man fitness class for the past few months. I got into it for an article – one of my company’s mags needed willing guinea pigs to torture and I’m always up for some madness – and then later stayed on because it was effective and fun. Sadly though, I hardly have a week of classes in a row because I tend to travel a lot for work. I think I’ve been to three different countries in the last month alone.

A few weeks ago, after my second disappearance and return in as many weeks, I was helping put the weights and things away, when the instructor gave me this funny look and asked me if I was a spy. I burst out laughing at that. Good joke Mr Fitness. You know I’m just a ho-hum business journalist. No drama or mystery there. But he wasn't kidding. “I mean, you have this amazing background, speak a bunch of languages, are scary smart, fit, and you leave the country at the drop of a hat. You know you could tell me if you were, right?” Which he followed up with one of his I Am Being Quite Serious looks – ala Zoolander.

Oh lordy. Me as a spy. Imagine that. I am so not spy material. First there are my famous ‘creaking joints.’ They’re a bit of an Owl sonar system, so says my brother-in-law. He claims to be able to tell where I am in the house by listening for the clicks when I walk. So much for stealth mode. I wouldn’t be able to sneak up on anyone who wasn’t deaf – which would limit my assignments to Geriatric Reconnaissance. And the clicks would also be damned annoying when I was in disguise, pretending to be someone else. No amount of Inspector Clouseau -esque costuming would be able to mask the sound from my misbehaving ankles. They would be my undoing.

Then there is the question of - aren’t spies supposed to be super dangerous? I am hardly a lethal weapon Mr Fitness. To which he raised an eyebrow and said: “I don’t know about that.” Haha, yes, you’re right, I have been known to drop a weight on my foot or workout to the point where I look green and faint. But, you see, I don’t know much about spying and all that, but I always kind of assumed that you’d be needing to incapacitate OTHERS. Not yourself. That, I doubt I’d be much good at. Unless I had them laughing at me so hard they had an asthma attack. Again, then I’d only be sent on missions against the ill and infirm. Boo.

And even if I manage to learn to direct my self-destructiveness at others – and not those with poor lung function - there is my big problem with lying. I am terrible at it. If and when I ever lie, I IMMEDIATELY begin to die of guilt. Even stupid white lies that you unwittingly say or hear others say on your behalf. Like, for instance, I am actually still feeling awful that I didn’t correct an aunty when she was telling people I go for a 7 mile run a day. I don’t. I WAS doing 7 kilometres about 4 nights a week, which is really NOT the same thing. At the time, I didn’t want to prolong the conversation that had me as the central topic, so I just nodded and smiled as the aunty went on. But then that horrid Truth Serum that seems to run in my veins got to working and since then I’ve been making a point to tell everyone who was privy to that conversation that no, it’s kilometres, not miles, and it’s not daily. Which makes me look more than a bit anal and nutty. Sigh.

Imagine then if I had to LIVE a lie. I could see myself at some diplomatic soiree being introduced as the Ambassador of Elbonia, while in fact I was a secret-agent-woman for M16 or something. Two minutes after smiling politely as the lie was released into the wild, I’d be overcome by remorse, get a terrible stomach ache, and then have to take to the side all those who’d been told of my fake designation, and inform them that um, I also work in data collection. Or something. Anything that at least somewhat covers my actual job. Which would summarily let the cat out of the bag. I’d either be ejected from the country because of my spyishness, or just ostracised for being so money-hungry that I was moonlighting on the side of my diplomatic job.

The only thing that makes me remotely spy material are my looks, but those too are also my undoing. Yes, I am average to the point of it being ridiculous – average weight, average height, average coloring. Add to that my mixed bag of mixed-race facial features and you have the World’s Most Generic Woman. I have passed for all races but black and all my adult life people have been telling me I look ‘exactly like someone they know.’ But…. I wear hijab. Which again, like my creaky joints, would be a bit of a giveaway. My arch nemesis, The Claw or whoever, need only be on the look out for a suspect in: a scarf, a turban, a strangely large hat, a bloody head bandage, a mummy costume, an astronaut’s suit, a nun’s habit or a suit of armor. Even at a fancy dress ball, he need only say “Everyone, remove your head gear!” and I’d be smoked out. Alas.

So, my hilariously non-astute personal trainer, what appears to be a deliberately dull and harmless façade for my exciting life of mystery and intrigue is…actually just me. *shrug*

I dedicate this post to my dad:

Did you know I talk about you all the time? Tell people stories about you. Do the accent mom swears I ham up way too much. Explain how much you love to feed people and talk. Try and describe you to the many people who know me but not the family/circus of which I was just one of the many acts. It's funny that after a near lifetime of trying to define myself against and in spite of you - I now spend so much time plainly and even proudly showing others the traces of what I am from you. And wishing I'd inherited more.

The father I talk of is Legend. He is larger than life. In the stories I tell, you see this earnest but spacey silver bearded gentleman in an apron, feet spread wide as he stirs pots of food on the stove (some possibly burning) and expounds on religion, politics and life. And just when you think you've heard the entire record - I used to swear I'd memorized all your monologues - you bust out with a new one or a completely unexpected joke, cracked with one of mighty Mongolian eyebrow up and the other down and your mouth turned up in a grin that is contagious. My abbu.

You are larger than life and yet, we're practically the same height. And somehow I have never thought of you as a small man. No one does. You're all heart and muscle - you love, share, sacrifice and humble yourself for others. You manage to be the biggest man I know even though I can now see over the top of your white-haired head.

Mom used to always tell me she married the nicest man she ever met. I used to think she obviously didn't get out much. Turns out it was me that lacked the exposure. Not everyone's dad would cook, clean and look after four kids while their mom went home to be with her own sick father. And few of my friend's dads have been as willing to make others laugh as you are. Any time we gave you a gift you would wear the wrapping bow on your head and most pictures we have of you you're pulling a funny face. Though you never remembered my birthday, you seemed to always know when I wanted ice cream and would come home with my favorite flavor in the bag. (“Abbu how’d you know!” “I just have feelings. A father just does.”) And though I spent my teenage years in an impenetrable shell, when I finally came out, there were no reproaches for the years gone. I know in many ways I defied the expectations of your culture and generation of how a girl should be, you've amazed me by accepting and even being proud of who I am. It was you who looked after my clippings and it humbles me every time you ask me my opinion about a problem. I hope to always make you proud.

And though we do still have that vein of friction – probably a permanent state between a conservative desi father and his noncomformist tomboy daughter - I think I realize now that it exists more so because we are so much alike. You are probably the biggest reason why I have character - I never saw you to lack it. And you're the reason why I have what the rest of the family calls my cast-iron will, because you, my little-big abbu, has never let circumstances hold you back. You are loyal to a fault – and so am I. And though I am introverted in ways that always perplex you the garrulous extrovert, I know the art of conversation and the joy of giving and hosting because of you. You taught me how to laugh at myself, to be humble, to work myself to the bone, to remember God, to serve others, to be patient and to hold myself upright.

I know I never say it enough, because I am prickly in ways that I’ll probably never be totally rid of, I love you. Thank you.

I put a banana in my purse this morning as I was running out the door with the vague notion of – when I get to work, and when I get hungry, I shall eat this. Instead of what I usually do, which is stumble out of the house with little more than chai and a corner of toast in me, then at work drink about four cups of tea while emailing my roommate or my sister or whoever I feel like throwing a boomerang at that day with the articulate and endearing message of “I AM HONGRAY!” Bananas in purses is what is known as being a Grown Up. Or planning. Or something.

Incidentally, right now, at ten to ten, I am drinking a large flagon of tea out of my pirate mug and eating peanut M&Ms. So much for grown up. Also, my purse and the person who carries it smell like lunch at the Primate House. I am obviously awesome. And an 8-year-old. With a caffeine problem.

I try though. Really I do. I woke up this morning and very methodically ironed an extremely fussy skirt with panels and pleats and an equally fussy shirt that sort of ties like a judo gi while looking like what Japanese Barbie Wears to Office. After zipping and tieing myself into the ensemble, I then took all up a notch and put on … make up. Damn straight. Owl wears make up. This, by the way, I believe is one of the portents of the Apocalypse. Ask Nostradamus. He knows. But yes, the reason for the extra effort is once again I’m interviewing some fancypants CEO today and have to look the part. And before the banana was drafted, I put on one of my five pairs of knee-high boots for the extra height to keep my swooshy skirt from dragging and also maybe making me seem extra Grown Up. Because the root of grown is GROW, and tall people are thus all much older and stuff. So in 3 inch heels, I could not possibly be a 26 year old pretending to run a magazine. Nuhun.

I then got in my car and drove myself to work. Only doing a bit of the speeding, weaving and taking turns at absurdly high speeds just to hear the tires squeal. Because I am mature now, donchaknow. Also, I think it may have had something to do with the fact that traffic was unusually bad and there wasn’t much space to act-out. Then when I got to work, I boldly went where no-one-who-valued-the-undercarriage-of-their-car-would-go, and parked relatively near my office (for once, sparing me the 1 km walk in Dubai’s heat), and got out. Only to feel a slight strange dragging about the hips and waist, upon which I looked down and realized my skirt was trying to go south for the winter. You see, the tailor who made the thing had forgotten to put in the customary button or hook to keep the long side zip from slowly opening on its own. By the time I’d made the drive to office, all my fast-turns and manic driving had apparently put enough pressure on the zip to begin its slow decline and my bound out of the car was all it needed to become a serious menace to public decency. I grabbed it before it made its escape and quickly zipped it back up and continued my power-walk to the office.

So now, I am at work, looking EVER so grown up with my mascara (which, btw, is ANNOYINGLY ITCHY), tall boots, complicated blouse and swooshy skirt – all of which is only slightly marred by the fact that every few minutes my hand strays to the zip which I try to discretely pull closed again. Because, of course, I wouldn’t have a spare safety pin on me. I mean, what, a hijabi, carry extra pins? What an absurd idea. That would be too responsible of me. And take all the spontaneity out of life. What fun would it be if I didn’t regularly try to keep my scarf on with a bent paper clip and my clothes on with staples? Hmm? Exactly.

I think though, I am pulling it off. As in, despite my wardrobe malfunction, I can still look Grown Up. Because there is precedent for this. You CAN be perfectly authoritarian and stuff while keeping a hand on errant bits of clothing. Napoleon did it. Seriously, think of all the paintings you’ve ever seen of the guy. Didn’t he ALWAYS have his hand in his jacket? His shirt must have been doing naughty things and he was keeping it in check. And because he was also a totally self-assured megalomaniac with plans for global domination, no one was the wiser. So, as long as I spout pithy quotes, go about dissing England and shouting I Love Josephine, I shall be set. Also, um, I may have to invade Russia. Ah well. Anything for the job.