What with the pahadland trip, the hand coming out of the socket and the general lackadaisical attitude I had marinated self in, the waistline, thanks to the complete lack of physical effort, had morphed to the levels where it had become a daily challenge to get the buttons of them trousers to come together, and the two sides of the zipper, surly and recalcitrant, like Moses himself had asked them to do a Red Sea parting act, refused to do the modest thing and zip up, and instead remained wide and gaping, ensuring I segued into kurtis and carefully folded the body fit tees and placed them on a higher shelf where I need a stool to access them, given there was no chance of wearing them in the immediate future.
I refused to get onto the weighing scales to confirm what the mirror was telling me. I have blimped up in the past couple of months and how. And therefore, now, if I needed to be able to fit my reflection into the dressing table mirror without the sides of my hips being cropped off, I needed to take drastic action. This could mean running out and buying a wider mirror. Or this could mean putting the venerable patrician nose to the grindstone and working hard at whittling the waist down to respectable proportions. I’ve chosen the latter option. It starts with giving up rice and shifting to rotis, which in turn means that I spend the day in a state of carb deprived funk and am busy biting off the heads of unfortunates who step into my path. I’m trying my level best to do sensible things like take to the stairs and walk a bit rather than swan it around in the car till pick up and drop off point, and I’m rationalising with self that the monsoon is not exactly the best season to get all active and energetic and walk around the city, given that the streets are teeming with all types of cultured and uncultured bacteria and I’m not speaking about the kind you see under the microscope. So the walking around will have to be restricted to rounds around the parking lot, with swift reflex training to leap nimbly out of the way when cars come zooming at you at 120 mph and with manic grinning drivers intent on putting you straight into the ICU with multiple plaster casts and weighted traction.
The plan now, is to control the eating. Which, of course, is easier said than done. To cut down the sweet stuff completely. To switch off from the processed food. To choose healthy options rather than stuff which is a chemical cocktail and comes in cartons. And to above all, to stop the seconds and the thirds and the fourths and the subsequents that have me groaning at the dining table and needing to be hoisted to my feet by sturdy hands, with biceps earned from weight training in gym.
I have also stuck pic of self in stick thin mode. Ah yes, this is pre brat and back when the metabolism could take an entire cake and devour it without any of it deciding to stay back and become permanent squatters around the circumference of the thigh, and in the derriere, enabling me to be entitled to a personal zip code for my butt.
I’m giving myself a month to get back within the frame of the mirror, without needing to side slice my love handles off. I shall report back if I have been successful. I am also keeping a pair of trousers that refuse to go up past the thighs without seriously threatening to cut off blood circulation to my feet in full view every time I open the wardrobe. It shall sneer at me every time I do my last minute panic about What To Wear and end up pulling out my 90% lycra jeggings and Eat All You Want kurtis and make me rue the fact that I’m too far gone to ever get into it again. Perhaps that would be an inspiration. If nothing else, it would serve as a sorry reminder, that yes, the wardrobe needs to be culled and perhaps I could do some serious calorie burning doing it.