So there I was, in my running shoes, in the park, while the brat amused himself by picking out creepy crawlies in the sandpit, to the accompaniment of my occasional cries of “Put it down, put it down,” punctuating the air. I was damned if I was not going to lose weight and lose weight fast, and that meant walking really fast, too fast to make decent gossip with friends over the phone, (yes, they will probably bury me with the phone attached to my ear, I have done the Mt Everest of back to back phone conversations, and while a finger donated to the cause of polluting the world with soundwaves is commendable, my ear might need surgical detachment from said instrument. Next post coming up on Mobiles. Instrument of Evil.). Which meant that, there went, like all my good intentions, one more chance to update myself on what I should really be doing to lose weight in the here and now, without getting my carcass across to a plastic surgeon cum evangelist who would lay me on a table, and jab me with a needle, take out all them congealed deposits of fat (Chicken broth, taken out from the refrigerator, gobs of fat swimming unappealing upfront, thats my vision) and then reinject them into lung area which could do with some good boosting up with autologous fat deposits, especially since the only thing that seems to be able to hold said area in defiance of gravity is lot of goodwill and those stick on stuff to be used under undergarment unfriendly clothes, which one uses in dire situations (read really bad bad self esteem days, when one feels one could sweep the floor front and back with flopped out lung area and butt) under undergarments for an added lift. I am nothing if not unrealistic and optimistic.
I also believe in quick and immediate action, so I cut out all the carbs from my diet for two days and then read up about uric acid and kidney stones and gladly broke my bread with the air of one who is doing a great service to one’s body.
So I went the traditional route. Drinking a lot of hot water rather than room temperature water. I swear this makes me feel full without needing to eat anything solid. Filling up with soups and salads. And fruits. Translated into one cup of soup, two pieces from a salad and one segment of an orange. Come on. Thats a start for someone who has probably eaten salad voluntarily last when the mother supervised the ingestion of food with a footruler a foot long. Yes, that was why they were called footrulers. I knew there was a reason.
It also doesnt help that the husband has been working out like a monster and whittled down the waistline, and filled out the shoulders so obscenely, I should start checking his gym bag for needles and protein powder packs and other unmentionables. And that all his tshirts are now stretching across the shoulder area and hanging loosely on the torso, so he goes off promptly and buys himself an entire new wardrobe saying he’s earned it, and since I am only wearing sacks in black currently, what need do I have of new clothes. Remind me to file that in my file of percieved insults and rude comments to be brought out and mulled over in times of deep dank depression to help me feel worse and really beyond the low.
Sadistic man. Takes me shopping and buys stuff only for himself. But then, his strategy worked. I am getting serious about shedding the lard.
I can just hear the sniggers. Okay. Okay. I confess. I donot want to be the fat cow masticating behind the hunk at parties. Therefore this renewed vigour. Although the fact that I cannot see my toes anymore, and of course, I am not pregnant. But then I could never see my toes. Even before I was pregnant. Put it down to mammary overload. Now that the fat deposits there have been broken down by lactation and other such virtuous pursuits, the fat decided to do a jiggle and relocate to the stomach. So now, the stomach plays spoilsport. The only good thing about not being able to see them toes is that I never obsess that I need a pedicure, like now, so am running around happily with chipped nailpolish and cracked heels and in bliss until I put my feet up and catch a glimpse of the horror. And then faint. Yes, the mighty have fallen. Feet first. Dont even ask about them eyebrows. Perhaps I should just pretend the Brooke Sheilds look is back.
So here, I was, as I said, walking a right storm up round the wonderfully paved jogging track in our residential complex. Feeling so good and pumped about myself, that I could feel the fat dissolving in slow streams and melting down my thighs and trickling out through my feet. Yes, I have also been reading a lot of creative visualisation books. I used to call it fantasising, but obviously the authors have done a leg up and taken simple old fantasising into new realms of techniques, involving deep and heavy breathing in alpha and beta states of mind, which would have the husband wondering what I was upto all by myself if I started up on them before falling off to sleep. He, being more used to, “Gnig……zzzzzzzzz” Followed by one million “zzzzzzzzzs” ever increasing in volume and then a sudden snorting jumping start up, followed by “Was I snoring?” To which, I received as an answer, a snore in return. Under such romantic circumstances, where we cant seem to keep our hands off each other, creative visualisations assumes even more vital importance. Specially when one can get creatively visualised with anyone in the whole wide world, and have perfect abs and thighs at the same time.
To come back to the moment, the creative visualisation moment, as I visualised the fat melting and draining down the length of my trackpants, I wondered if people might wonder whether I really really needed to go to the bathroom fast, and desisted from further such visualisation and just continued walking really briskly. Wind whipping my hair into a nice little crowsnest that a lot of conditioner and leave in serum would repair into manageable normality. The fresh scent of the tide run out of the creek that one can practically jump into from our balcony. Yes, invigorating is the word. It would have awoken a corpse. And that too one many days from the mortuary. A placid elephant wearing track pants and loose knee length tshirt ambled on the same track. I made a mental resolution to never wear grey tracks and Tshirts in public ever again, unless the tracks were lycra fit and the tshirt a cut off racer back top. But then, I am a long way from that. Elephant gave me a sympathetic eye. “So tough to lose the baby weight isnt it?” she said sweetly. I smiled that quirky half smile I have when I am really not open to conversation, and do not particularly feel enthused about the topic chosen to open the conversation. “No, actually, my son is four now.” She laboured on, unaffected by my absolute lack of enthusiasm. I still like to kid myself that the waist has a semblance of an indenture known optimistically as a waistline and the hips are curvy and womanly.
Confronted by such blatant verbalisations of true situation has me all bristly like a lovable hedgehog. “Trust me, go spinning. I lost all my weight through spinning.” I could not imagine the original size, if this was the “lost all my weight” size.
Then came the piece de resistance. Said with the wise air of the one who has been there and done it, and is eager to dispense with the advice, the route and the little tips to the novice. “It will take you a lot of time, though. But dont worry. Control your diet and do spinning. Look at me. You’ll become perfect like me.”
Ten on ten for self confidence if nothing else. That I need to learn from her. And all the spinning happening was in my head.