Yup. Read that again. A minimum of half and hour everyday and a maximum of an hour and a half. All depending of course on the company. Me being my normal garrulous self, and needing to broadcast to the world my woes (maid issues being the most prominent these days, needing long and detailed lamenting into any available ear, sympathetic or not), the state of my fat, the details of my wardrobe (sadly depleted of new finds these days), and the sales being announced in various malls, springing up like a rash just when one is broke beyond brokedom.
The walk is a good thing to happen. For one, it loosens up all that cellulite sitting snug and pretty in the butt, and the thighs and forces it to do a rethink about its existence given that I am talking sternly to it, and telling it to get a move on, and come out through some fat dissolution osmosis process, whatever, and let them thighs be as smooth as an apple rather than bumpy like said orange peel the cellulite is so charmingly referred to. And secondly, it keeps me sane. The walking couch, I call it.
Round up a couple of friends and walk. And talk. And unwind. I used to love walking in isolation until I realised that all I did was churn over the same debris of sad thoughts in my head until they were compost, and ready to send me into full fledged depression. Having a chat while one walks is miles better. I send out my depression into the ethers. I weigh my fellow walkers down with my anguish at not being able to find a suitable replacement for my two gems who have taken themselves off to the village, and whining about the state of my hands, which once used to model, being so pretty and delicate and now could easily pass for a rustics, with all appropriate callouses, no nails worth a manicure, and dare I even think of nailpolish. No, sirree, I am so not wearing my emerald cocktail ring with these hands, I might get arrested for having flicked it off someone with better maintained mitts. And then there is also the delight of knowing I am not alone in this boat. Everyone has their own issues to jabber about. And then I can feel valued and wanted by adding my two cents of unwanted advice into the discussion, which of course, will never be taken seriously enough to be followed, but will be listened to seriously, and I will be asked to repeat things in great detail as though folks are taking mental notes of my words of wisdom, and will follow them diligently in due course.
Walking with company also allows for collective female moaning about fat, and then collective commisuration about having lost weight, even though the actual amount lost will be the equivalent of the magnification strength of a research laboratory microscope. We do brave things in the company of other women also trying to lose weight. We talk boldly about the ful bars of chocolates we have downed. Or the puris we packed away for lunch. Or the pastry we snuck down the hatch in a weak moment. And we get sympathy. No Nazi eyebrows raised, like the spouse who knows that the next thing that follows random weight gain will be random shopping, to get clothes that could shelter an army from a storm, so wide would the width be.
Have I lost weight? Around three kgs says the scale. A jump and writhe and suck the belly in to button pair of Next skinny fits buttoned on yesterday without the need for the entire jump, writhe on the floor, suck in tummy, breathe in routine leaving me quite disgusted with the extra ten minutes on hand while getting dressed in the morning, and letting me apply some bronzer and eyeliner to compensate.
Around five kgs more to go before I reach hour glass proportions. I’m walking. And talking. If only the body could be exercised as effortlessly as the tongue. Wait, doesnt talking eat up some calories too?