If you love food then it's most likely that slowly but surely, as time passes, your waist line does a fast forward on you! I have come to believe that even if I look at food with my peripheral vision, my fat cells get excited and multiply in anticipation. So therefore over the years, I have included exercising into my daily routine.
I have stomped down many a dusty by-lanes in the heat of the Baroda summers, with girl friends in tow, panting away as we have power-walked like wild hippos let loose from the zoo! Then came the craze of aerobics. Well put on the T.V and step it up girl, heaving bosoms and all! My poor family had to cultivate the art of freezing their facial muscles so that their mirth was contained behind the stoic dignity of support they offered me.
Now to top it all I have one foot bigger than the other. (If I was of Red Indian descent I could have been named "long foot left", but lets not get side tracked here.) Therefore in the yester-years of "sell Indian-buy Indian-cheat Indian" where chi-chi labels were contraband, good old Bata was what graced my dainty feet. With no half sizes in foot wear, I either hobbled in pain with a few toes being crushed Japanese style, or I flip-flopped a la Don Martin of Mad Magazine fame. Either way I would have been a ramp walk disaster, so that career was certainly a no-no.
I also believe we must share our passions with those we love. So one fine day I caught my poor unsuspecting partner, who in the best of times is someone one would classify as being"poetically languid" in pace, and decided that push-ups was the order of the day. Let me just conclude right here, that after one valiant effort that yielded a two inch rise off the floor, he was dead duck status for three days!
So now it's the gym era for us in the family. (We would certainly give the three little bears of Goldilocks fame, a complex with our commitment to this new found regime.) Nike is the flavour of the month and we zip across the city punctually each day, to mount and pound away with feverish delight on hi-tech machines, that would groan if they could at the indignities of torture they receive from us. I am grateful for my failing eyesight as I prance into senior citizenship because my reflections in the mirrors miraculously appear in soft focus. Hallelujah!
Sculpted bodies and bouncing jelly may make a great book title, but trust me are depressive when the later is your "birthday suit" gifted to you by yourself! So be kind the next time we meet up and tell me how beautiful the tip of my nose is despite its Parsi heritage, and I promise you I will not call you a liar.
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