Of Snakes and Jeems.

The lack of activity on this blog is but one indication of how fucking lazy I've become. As if I decided to take a "vacation from myself" (in the spirit of the Seinfeld Butter Shave episode) the sluggish and cynical writer of this blog has decided to become "fit".

Which is funny, because I honestly never considered myself to be unfit. Sure, I would think twice about buying most clothes I've ever laid my hands on, but I had the stamina for a physically demanding job and I wasn't fat enough to repulse the opposite sex (to be that fat takes some doing, look at the excitement to watch Susan Boyle lose her virginity on camera). I have lots of girlfriends whose waist size is <30>

Like most women, I decided the way to go was to diet. Many people find diets to be a lazy person's idea of fitness, which in my case is certainly true. And I've worked hard (or as hard as a lazy person can work) at my diets. I tried the Atkins, which worked wonders even though it had me sobbing at bread baskets. Unfortunately I missed the part about slowly incorporating carbs into the diet, and that's when things went, well, back to normal. With interest. A friend suggested I do the South Beach, and I didn't quite see the point, almost everything I ate seemed to be permissible under this strange eating regime. It wasn't totalitarian enough for me. 

I then decided to do the professional thing. Think about it - you buy a book for 30 bucks from Flora Fountain or read some website on the internet and expect it to work, just like that? People spend years studying nutrition and these books seem to indicate that they are complete idiots who would be better off working at some Burger King Drive In Counter. Luckily, a friend of a friend (I love how significant new entrants in my life make their entrance dramatically and ridiculously on cue, like a slapstick Gujarati Play) who had just turned into an overnight celebrity nutritionist introduced me to the small meals plan. 

And how I love the small meals. I don't care if they don't work (yes I do - I paid a lot for this) but I plan for them and look forward to them with such eagerness that I scare myself at what an obsessive mother I will turn into. I eat, eat and eat, and if I don't get to eat I get goddamn cranky. Luckily, the plans do work. It helps that I get hardly any career satisfaction so I divert my creativity into planning my snacklets. Now do you get why I stopped blogging? :)

Suddenly this all looked promising. I liked the shape of myself in the mirror. Maybe this fit thing wasn't such a bad idea after all - of course there are always limits (size zero - hahahahaha) and I got to eat everything I wanted to. Voila!

It was then that my celebrity nutritionist friend pointed out that celebrities have much more than nutritionists at their side:

"Why don't you start some weight training?"

Ah ha.

The Gym (or as my first not-boyfriend and countless other Puneri boys put it, "the jeem") and I share a chequered history. My first experience with the gym was post my 10th Boards when unlike most of my friends my parents were not taking me anywhere on a holiday and I had nothing to do but sloth around and wait for my results. My dad suggested I join a gym. Come to think of it, the gym has been suggested to me for almost every conceivable reason - "You're bored! Join a gym." "You're fat! Join a gym." "You're depressed! Join a gym." "You're single! Join a gym." "You're getting married! Join a gym." "You need to network! Join a gym." "It's cheap! Join a gym."

FIne, whatever. So he enrolled me in a gym, and I was to report there every morning. I had paid a princely sum of Rs. 600 to enroll for the month. 

The instructor was built like a bull on steroids who also ODed on Prozac. 

Throughout my life, I have noticed that it is difficult to cultivate meaningful and lasting relationships with people who poke me in the tummy on our first meeting.

He was no exception.

I lasted about 2 days and 6 sit ups.

Various other experiments included College Gyms, another private gym and finally I made my peace with the help of 1) A fitness freak friend, Daze 2) Aerobics and 3) An instructor with a butt like a work of art, no matter that he from the front he looked like just another Digga Superstar.

In Mumbai, it was back to the sloth. I had a partner in crime, my roommate, (though she managed to rise above the Sunday Morning Spazz Outs and run the Half Marathon, wow) who bought a stepper after a hasty tryout session at the Hypercity Mall. The roommate's off to conquer the world (bank) but her loyal Stepper still sits in the living room, drying clothes, and scaring my sister who spends sleepless nights in Mumbai imagining the shadows cast from its handles to be the horns of a crazed antelope.

Anyway. I digress.

I joined a gym about a month ago. And I am ashamed to say that I enjoy it thoroughly and it gives my life new meaning and I think people who think that they are above physical exercise are lowly human beings even if they think my life must really suck if going to the gym is what I look forward to the most.

I started by paying extra for the personal trainer, K, which was the best decision I've taken in about 4 months. K initially shyly suggested that I come into the gym later in the morning to avail of the services of the lady trainer. I didn't, but I met her while being measured (more on that later). Waking up at 545 every morning was worth it. My trainer rocks because he is so damn fit. However, he also has a baby face and is so nice that I actually guilt myself into going to the gym at times. K always comes up with some new method of trying to kill me so I never get bored. It must be all those endorphins. And it's true. Early morning physical exertion makes you disgustingly energetic through the day. K gives me heavy weights and assures me that spot reduction is for losers and I smile through sweat blurred eyes.

The gym is partly airconditioned and fully Gujarati (this is Vile Parle, what did you expect?) and wonderfully entertaining. Today I was cornered by the staff and K who insisted I come to get myself "measured" in the morning. They did this when I joined as well - they didn't seem too concerned about when and if I was going to pay the fees as long as I get myself measured. 

So there it was, loss quantified in terms of inches. I was like one of those chicks on TV commercials holding oversized pants over their new and petite frame, except I just had half an inch (and at one place, one and a half inches!) of measuring tape to show for my efforts. But I was grinning like an idiot. Especially when I found out that my weight on the measuring scale was absolutely the same it was a month ago.

The lady trainer who was sizing me up wasn't, but she obviously hadn't been doing as much internet research as I was.    

And apparently I make a valuable contribution to the gym as well! I went home for a few days and when I came back, K looked more pleased than I expected him to be.

"You see, when you were out, the guys weren't working out as hard as they used to."

Cheesy, I know.

Ooh. That reminds me. Snack time!