Bikini Season

So it’s almost the end of bikini season. Apart from the fact that I’m now in Delhi and if I show any skin I get roasted and tanned and sun-burnt and lectured by my mom and dad and grand-mom and the neighbor’s aunt’s mom’s childhood friend who will judge my upbringing while her driver salivates, another reason that bikini season doesn’t matter to me is because I don’t wear bikinis.

It’s not got anything to do with the morality issue. I just like the extra cheese pepperoni pizza.
A LOT.

If it wasn’t for my will power, I’d be exercising right now. I even joined this up-market gym once and after 20 minutes on the treadmill I turned it on. A few minutes running on it, I began to huff and puff and curse my stamina and bite my lip while this crazy cute pair of abs stared at me in the mirror as if to say ‘That’s not very Versace of you’. Then he lifted his 100 kg dumbell and went back to staring at himself, like Morgan Freeman was narrating his workout by the second. Soon a bunch of girls entered in shorts I thought were belts and waistlines that are the main reason feminists hate Barbie, and took control of all the remaining machines and I’m just like What are you even doing here? You’re done.

So I went home.

I tried again next day. Cute Abs continued staring at me in the mirror. Our eyes met and I think I gave him a really clear sign. Leave me alone. I’m spooning my boyfriend in my head. Out of his container. Okay… He’s ice cream.

Eventually I gave up. I got complacent and busy with coloring and falling in love with boys who didn’t want to be fallen in love with. I felt like I had a hangover. Without all the happy memories and mystery bruises. I even tripped and fell into some feelings. I’m okay now, I brushed that shit off.
And got myself registered at that gym again.

Cinderella didn’t ask for a prince. She asked for a night off and a dress.

 

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