There was I, walking to the song in my head, at a steady pace and rhythm, acutely conscious of belly jiggle and lung area extra bounce brought on by the pulls of gravity and such unpleasant things, not fit for display on a public platform.
The wind in my hair, and in my ears and eyes. The smell of the nearby creek flitting into my nose, and digging little holes into my brain. This is my routine every alternate day. Every alternate evening to be precise. The days I cant get the butt into the garden, I do my walking in the house. Am sure the false ceiling of the home below ours is flaking and falling on the hapless inmates.
Keep walking, keep walking, feel those thighs tightening. Feel those hips melting.
So I kept walking. Fifteen minutes. Half and hour. Forty five minutes. One hour.
And then ran right home and wolfed down KFC.
Yup, yup, deep batter fried chicken from the land of the lard.
God forgive me.
After all, there has to be some balance to life.
But having said that, I have been a good girl. I have cut out dinner. I have reduced sugar in tea and such unnecessaries. I have begun eating on a smaller plate, therefore smaller portions. I dont eat and read anymore. Therefore no mindless eating. No snacking on the occasional namkeen. Get thee behind me Haldirams. I am sacrificing my morning chai pao. I am renewing my passing acquaintance with fruits and salads, without the delight of dressing to make them more palatable.
And what is the weighing scale showing? Honestly, I dont really know. Havent got round to getting that damn scale down. Or is it that I dont dare bring it down, am really a cowardly custard unable to face the truth.
But I know my efforts are bearing fruit. The mother saw me the other day, and gasped in horror. Have you gone to the doctor, she asked, all aflutter with worry. Your face is looking haggard.
Thank you, thank you. Bring those butter laden croissants on.