It is official. I have two stomachs. One that happens above the waistline of the trousers. And one that pokes out happily from below the waistline and refuses to behave and settle in nicely, like any selfrespecting stomach would, and insists on peeking out through tops that are a trifle too short for comfort, having been bought in the good old days when one didnt even know the meaning of the word paunch. And they both move to a different beat from the rest of me. And I now need to stop pretending I have premenstrual bloat, or that them polycystic ovaries are the culprits, the culprit is me, for letting that stomach grow to such gigantic proportions without proof of a growing life form within.
Therefore now, I have resolved to get into shape. No round isnt a shape, and no matter how much the husband reassures me that cuddly is sexy, love handles sure as hell arent. Not when they are obtuse angles that refuse to follow the natural curve of the denim that I try to force them into. Yes. Lycra is my current best friend. And lycra enhanced denims are what I bow to everyday. But how long can this subterfuge continue? One fine day I need to confront my multiple stomachs and thunderthighs without the camouflage of lycra and slimming mirrors, and face up to the truth. The truth being that weight needs to be lost and pronto and lets not kid oneself that one is ‘healthy’.
Then comes the agony of exercise. I can sit the entire day at the computer and wear out my fingers, but ask me to lift a dumb bell and I go into glazed shock.
Ofcourse, the multiple stomachs need crunches and much effort to get them to behave, but me being me, will be ostrichlike and pretend that cutting out the carbs, and ambling around the jogging track occasionally like an elephant minus the tail will do the trick. Who am I kidding? I need an army sergeant to whip me into shape, and knowing me, will run off crying bitter tears on the very first day when I find myself unable to reach anywhere below my knees from standing position.
Therefore will now aim not at spot reduction but general fitness. Which means not taking the elevator but walking up and down the stairs. Which I did the other day when the lights went out, and collapsed in a sweaty puddle somewhere between the eight and ninth floor, and called the husband on speed dial in agony. Yes, yes, fitness levels are abyssmal. Also the fact that I was shod in steel spiked stilletoes didnt help the cause. Do you think I am inflicting agony on mother earth like some voodoo practitioner sticking little pins into it, by wearing these? And by putting so much pressure on such a sliver of a heel?
Anyway, the hope of wearing flats, moccasins, ballerinas and sports shoes to maximise walking time has gone the way of all my good intentions. I wear them occasionally, but not always. And always feel so dowdy and behenji in them, that I start mopping up the imaginary oil from my hairline, and wonder if I should just plaster on a bindi and one gadzillion bangles on my hands to complete the look. Flats do nothing for me, except make me look more like a pillar than a lissome vine. But since they make me more comfortable to walk more, I should get them gams into them more often.
And I should cut out the carbs, and the salt, I am told. And eat five small meals through the day. Cut out the junk. Drink lots of hot water through the day. Dont eat after seven in the evening. Be active. Get at least half an hour of exercise a day. Going to try this all. Solemn oath. And will keep you guys posted if the stomachs decide to merge into one.