Skipped Yoga this morning. Yup. Criminal offence in the husband’s books, considering he is the dedicated kind of fitness freak who could be doing push ups in a plane aisle if the flight timings coincided with his work out schedules. Yes, for a man like this to be married to a woman like me who grabs any opportunity she can to crawl into her blanket and emerge only when sharp high voice barks, Mamma gerrup, must be torture of the first degree. The scathing glance he gave me when I sheepishly looked at him over the morning cuppa was torture. No yoga class this morning, he asks, single eyebrow raised in sharp arch. I mumbled incoherently and slunk away pretending I was needed more in the kitchen than right there to answer uncomfortable questions about why I bunked something that was supposed to do me good. And make me lose weight. And get into shape. And therefore become the picture of even more perfection than I already am.
I mumbled some about Aunty Flo being on me, to which he raised another sardonic eyebrow being in the first hand know about how this had to be a development that occured the moment the cellphone began braying its terrifying screech of an alarm. Ever hear an alarm when you are deep in sleep, snug as a bug in a rug with a mug or whatever, and dreaming blissfully about Richard Gere or Christian Bale in Batman costume or Heath Ledger in Joker make up or whatever it is that makes your dreams blissful. Yup. It doesnt register at first. At second it registers and you dont want to register what it is trying to make you register. And at third, you are ready to fling it out of the open french windows right next to your bed, and hear the satisfying thud of it smashing to smithereens on the ground 15 floors below. You stop yourself with the thought that you will develop Crackberry withdrawal symptoms and have to be institutionalised, and walk around holding an invisible instrument furrowed brow, thumb punching air furiously, I swear I have developed frown lines after the Blackberry happened but that probably owes more to the lack of a visit to the opthalmologist than the instrument itself. Nonetheless, the alarm is the worst invention of the civilised world. This, along with the microwave is the death of me. Easy reheating means easy eating. This means more eating. And therefore more need of the alarm to get up at unearthly hours when ghosts and spirits walk the earth to twist and turn oneself into pretzel shapes and hope the fat cells get the message, to pack their stuff into their suitcases and take the next train out. Vicious cycle.
I didnt offer any further explanations to the man I had pledged my troth to, but went about the morning tasks with the insouciance of one who can toss her head dismissively and say my fat, my lack of will. And sucked the stomach in some more to get the button hole and the button to come together. Did some jumping and twisting and patting in of fat. And checked if I had the spare safety pin ready and available in the handbag in case of sudden button splitting situation having been experienced ever so often and in ever so public situations like waiting outside the child’s school to pick up the critter. And the Oh Mother Earth Swallow Me Now situation happening bang in front of assorted van wallahs waiting to pick up their charges and am sure having their afternoon brightened by vision of horrific CSec belly let loose under too short tshirt.
As the guilt gnawed at my cellulite but did not demolish it, I resolved to do an hour long walk in the evening. I normally stroll around behind the critter but have been side tracked these days by inveterate gossiping or finding folks I am not so eager to walk with insisting on escorting me through a frogmarch situation by placing themselves on either side of me and hauling me round the track, like a convict to the gallows while they plague me with information I dont need on or enjoy like their digestive processes. What they take to ease their digestive processes. Aand what I should do to reduce my fat. Thank you very much. I am the only person allowed to comment on my fat. The rest of the world, hold your peace or let it be known there will be war if you even suggest that I am not sylph like.
Last night saw me pacing like a caged lion in the passage near the lifts. We have a long passage. Put a black hood over my head and lead me down it and it could be the green mile. Residents gave me funny stares thinking I’d been locked out or worse, thrown out. The child popped the door open occasionally and grinned at me cheekily, no doubt enjoying the free hand he had on his remote control to Cartoon Network. The neighbour invited me in for some chai and sympathy, assuming the husband and I had spatted it and I was clearing the head and choking on some tears.
I declined politely and ran back in. Then I tried to go up and down the stairs. Twenty storeys each way I thought would give me gluts I could crack a walnut with. But three floors up, after battling all the spare cartons, cycles and such like on every floor landing, I threw my hands up and surrendered. And returned home huffing and puffing and almost tempted to pretend I’d done the entire 20 floors two times round, but knew the state of my fat would give my lie away.
So I will make my confession to the powers above, and go down to my yoga class tomorrow morning. Do my yoga with renewed fervour. Visualise the fat cells breaking down into lipid liquid and draining out with my sweat. Feel the tingling of cellulite deposits being pummelled into submission and smoothness. Good bye orange peel.
Well a girl can hope, can’t she? Even if it means she needs to hire goons to kick her out of her blankets at 5 am on a winter morning.