Okay, will admit it. Two months of sheer gluttony have happened. In my excuse, I happened to be on holiday. And a lot of eating out has happened. And I am a woman who believes in doing justice to a meal. After all what better way to compliment the chef than to eat so much that you need to be dragged away from the table with a horsecart and a pulley.
Therefore, I have now, post the monthly visitation, reconciled to the beastly fact that them jeans arent buttoning up because my waistline is not bloated due to water, but nice and firm with unjiggly excess corpulence lovingly curled up and snoring in my cells. Or between my cells. Or wherever them damn things curl up and hibernate until a famine comes along to activate them into burning themselves up. I didnt not take up biology for nothing. I dont have a brain for these things.
I have committed all the crimes possible for one who purported loud and hard to all who could hear, and all who could not, that she was one a diet and exercise routine and was determined to lose five kilos come hell or highwater, so there. Well, hell and highwater, might have come around but dont think those five kilos are going anyway. If any, I see them calling their friends and relatives around the hips for a gathering of the clan that will whoosh me from J Lo butt to Rubenesque proportions. And no one wants to paint Rubenesque proportioned ladies anymore. They’re so out of fashion, its depressing. Never mind ALL those ads with round tubby ladies pouting seductively and pretending to be glamourous and seductive, they actually look so sad and trying so hard, that I put my head between my hands and weep. What have I sunk to? To actually flip past a Gas ad and look hard at the ALL ad.
So breakfast, lunch and dinner has happened. Regular eating out has happened. Eating of sweets has happened. Cakes and Pastries. Yes, maam. Bread sneakily wound back on my plate. Actually, it takes a good amount of self control not to digress from your diet if you are being guest in hospitable Indian home situation, where refusal of food is considered the worse possible offence, with only spitting on your host’s face, and making off with the family silver pipping it to the post.
And then the urge to sample the best fare of the eateries in the pleasant city one visited. I think I should enter restaurants with a sign on me that says “Will eat for food” and maybe they could put a fence around me and charge people good money for the spectacle.
So here I am, two months down the line. And the scale still stuck firmly where it was when I left. And the little oohing and aahing I did during my holiday and when I weighed myself and found two miraculous kilos had evaporated from my frame has been put to pay, with the eating I did in compensation. Am not going to tell you where I am right now. But suffice to know, it isnt a place with the cheerleaders.
Went shopping with young teenaged girl the other day, with a waist that one hand of mine could encircle and shopkeeper faints when I ask him for knee length folded capri denims. I hurriedly reassure him, the clothing is required for said young teenaged girl with waist…whatever, and he mopped his brow hurriedly. And then added sweetly, “Madam, aapke liye kurti dikha de?”
With the heavens having delivered such a brutal message, I walked close to one hundred kilometers trying to delete all the messages in my phone inbox, but the scroll button died on me before the messages got over. Therefore, taking this to be another sign from heaven, I went right back home and wolfed down a bowl of kheer.
Asked the husband plaintively in the dark of the night, “Do you still find me attractive?” He snored in response, it sounded like a yes. And I went to sleep, content.
Who am I to dissect whether a snore sounded like a yes, or a no, if it indeed did sound like a yes with a nod.