Ever since I started doing my humungosaurus impressions, [and I’ve been doing them for the last 4 years], the first thing I notice about people are their clavicles. The sight of a set of one can drive me to immediately start pushing pudgy digits into the vague direction of my neck [since my neck and chest are one homogeneous unit, you can appreciate the dexterity the task demands] desperately searching for mine.
Rationally, I know they exist, [how else can one explain the fact that my torso hasn’t folded up on itself – and no – it’s NOT my gravity-defying stomach that’s multi-tasking here]. But rationality has precious little to play when visibility is non-existent.
So, I find myself back in familiar territory – A territory I visit with alarming regularity every Monday morning [Can’t seem to start my week on a Sunday yet, despite having lived in the sandpit for almost three years now]. The hunt is on! I WILL get those reticent bloody critters to come out and assert themselves, if it kills me [which they won’t, if I continue to live in and around the feeding trough, as is my won’t]
Since the territory is familiar, the journey itself is like second nature:
Any given Wednesday
- The buttons on my jeans won’t come together [not if I want to be clothed and breathe at the same time]
- Fingers and toes are looking decidedly well-fed
- I’ve taken to being air-conditioned by the refrigerator [to heal the pain]
- Depression has settled in nicely – The same cannot be said for the 6 samosas that were consumed as a light snack
- Pulled out my pregnancy pants because can no longer wear aforementioned jeans, since have just had a bath. [Jeans of those intimate proportions can only be worn when both themselves and the blimp they are clothing are dirty. When either is freshly washed, they seem to exhibit outstanding opposite polarity and repel with great gusto]
- Catch glimpse of myself in the mirror. Walk away. Come right back and do and Amitabh Bachchan from Amar Akbar Anthony and give mirror self a right royal dressing down.
- Feeling supremely insulted and consequently invigorated.
- Spend the months’ entire internet package ogling at Youtube fitness videos and Before and After miracles.
- Spend the rest of the day ignoring gainful employment, immersed as I am in putting together the fitness schedule that will drop 22 kilos in 2 weeks.
- Eat copious amount of Romaine Lettuce and other such profanities.
- Slept fitfully [due to starvation]
- Killed it at the gym this morning! [Porcine impersonators on adjacent treadmills were shooting daggers my way]
- Orated ad nauseum at work today on the fool-proof fitness plan I’ve collated myself. I should really consider becoming a television evangelist given the awed speechlessness of my audience.
- Turn down three plans for drinks for the weekend. Feeling superior and sanctimonious at the same time
- Ate dinner in the bathroom as inhuman family [can’t believe I gave birth to two of those monsters wolfing down spaghetti bolognese!] was gushing over their repast.
- Screw them! I’ll be laughing the hardest when I’m fit and fabulous! In fact, I’ll start practicing now
- Husband knocks on the door wondering if I’ve misplaced my sanity
- Nothing to report.
- Unable to get out of bed owing to muscular paralysis from left ear-lobe down
- I’m nothing if I’m not religious
- Got down on my knees [walking is barely an option] and vowed that I will begin Monday.
- Laughed at self for being sooo idiotic as to start a diet mid-week!. Which congenital idiot does that?
- Husband finds me at my usual haunt in the cheese tray of the fridge and passes some smarmy comment. I shoot daggers at him [while making mental note to bash his smirking head against nearest wall once arm has stopped throbbing] while looking for that fabulous herb butter I bought last week
- Clearly, I didn’t mean this Monday! I obviously meant the first Monday of the month