It happened yesterday. I was at a friend’s house. I was buzzing with the excitement of the Indo Pak semi final. Much stimulants had been consumed. Much loud cheering had happened. The atmosphere was electric. It was the perfect moment to go do something stupid. And true to form I did. I sauntered into the children’s room to check if the collective offspring, who had been deposited there were killing each other, or being civilised and sharing toys when the eye caught a speck of red peeping out in front of the bed. It was too brilliant a flash of red to ignore and I bent down to investigate it further.
Twas a weighing scale. A digital one. And true to form, and also the reason why I dont keep one of the species at home, is how I promptly sucked in the stomach and lumbered onto said pristine surface, ordering the spawn of my womb to check the numbers which would appear on the display and held my breath.
He spoke. An obscene number that was past the weight I was at full term. Heh, I said, son, you don’t know how to read numbers and looked down confident he had got the order reversed. What he had read out confronted me. I screamed out loud. Friends rushed in from the living room where they were positioned in front of the television screen watching Sachin getting dropped for the umpteenth time. ‘What, what, what?” they gasped, checking all the pintsizes for evidence of blood or injury or swelling. “No” I wailed “It’s me. I’m beyond fat. I’m obese now.”
They flung themselves around on the floor hyuck hyucking in the most unsupportive fashion. I imagined the tissues would be offered, and a glass of cold water called for and much “Sit here, drink this water, breathe, don’t panic” Not this disdain. I could only put down this uncharacteristic lack of emotional support to the fact that watching the match had addled their brains and they were behaving in a stereotypically masculine style right now and would proceed to rib me about my fat deposits. I informed said friend whose residence we were invading that her weighing scale was off by a few kilos and she needed to get it checked, to which she calmly replied that the scale was fine and it had been recently calibrated and had me sink my head into my arms in despair and begin wailing in loud manner. This, after months of giving up sugar and fried foods and walking my knee joints off every single day. At almost the same weight I was when I was full term with the child in the womb. I needed to fling myself off the nearest cliff, and stab myself to ensure no chance of survival. I would go on a starvation diet immediately I reassured myself and sauntered off to the living room, picking up a random corn and cheese pakoda and nibbling on it to kickstart the blood sugar levels which had dropped appallingly low from the fright. Tomorrow, I assured myself. Tomorrow is another day. I would start a new, more rigorous diet from tomorrow. And yes, the daily Chocolate Cornetto post lunch would have to go too. I also needed to ensure that the daily walk was one hour of brisk no conversational walking, not random strolling around discussing menus and shopping and people we didn’t like and such like. I swore to myself that I would knock off the excess kilos even if I had to take a carving knife to myself and attack the cellulite deposits. Today is the first day of the new improved regimen.
Damn, I think she really needs to get that weighing scale checked.