I periodically keep popping up making mewling noises about how I really need to lose weight and about how my clothes are all bursting at the seams, and I really appreciate the restraint shown by you, dear reader, in not yelling at me to get the hell to a store and buy me some new clothes.
This time though, I am serious. As serious enough as I can be having switched from two paratha breakfasts to oatmeal breakfasts. Oatmeal!!! A couple of months ago this would have been tantamount to telling me to cut down my shoe wardrobe to three pairs. You know. But now that I am on three pairs of shoes in my shoe wardrobe (if you don’t count the gladiators, the flip flops, the sneakers, the ballys, the pairs I dont wear because they are just so uncomfortable), it seems only fair that the diet should echo my new simplistic lifestyle.
Ergo the oatmeal for brekkers. Topped with a little sprinkling of sugar. What? Ever had bland oatmeal, does it not taste like the stuff you hack up when you cough?
To make my life better, I chug down a mug of hotwater with lemon and honey the first thing in the morning, and visualise it floating down my stomach and my intestines, acting as a powerful hydrant clearing up all the glug clinging onto the walls of them intestines, having earnest conversations with the cilia, resistant to being evicted. I wonder if there is something I could glug down which could take a trip to my thighs and flush out them cellulite deposits now protruding at right angles and causing me to get stuck in revolving doors.
I have also cut down my diet. I have a single helping instead of two. (What? Buffets at favourite restaurants are exempt, and what were you doing looking at my plate and counting how many times I went for refills, anyway?) The deep fried stuff is still made in the house but poured down into the child’s throat given he needs some flesh on his bones, I might sneak a bite, but no more. Its like an alcoholic given charge of a wine shop in such situations. Tremendous self restraint required. Sometimes I am tempted to convince him he doesnt need all that is on his plate and get him to beg me to finish it, so I can do so promptly and be guiltfree at that.
I try and have my last meal at 8 pm the latest, and that includes one phulka, some sabji and dal. And yes, I’m walking again. An hour and a half a day. I dont weigh myself, I go by my reflection in the mirror and the buttons on my jeans, if I am looking barfworthy when I bathe and if the buttons on them jeans refuse to come together even after sucking in of stomach and much wriggling on ground to get the damn thing on in the first place, it is time to get on a diet. And, given that I have a narrow mirror, when my hips get shaved off the sides, is another clear and definite indication that it is time to hit the jogging track.
I’m giving myself a couple of months to whittle the waistline down. I’ve done it before, and I will do it again. It’s not drastic weightloss that I need, just a little bit shaved off from the sides in order for me not to look like a paperweight, (remember them from our childhood, round glass globes with specks floating in them). After a couple of months if the love handles still stare sullenly at me when I inspect myself, I will up the ante and get down to serious diet control. That means I might even give up the sugar on my oatmeal. I will not be a good person to meet in the mornings then. Ingesting a bowlful of phlegm does not a good mood make.