Tag Archives: gym

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The minutes you spend.
Looking at her clothes. How the neckline of her blouse is just shallow enough to give away her delicate collar bones. You spend a minute too long on this, in fact. And sigh.
Onto the next. Your fourth grade crush has bought his own BMW. Ah but, you think to yourself, it’s commonplace in the states.
Onto the next. Your ex boyfriend’s ex girlfriend. You make a mental note to unfollow her. Another time. Right now she’s got a cute puppy and you’ve forgotten you hated her.
You scroll down. It’s your mum’s cool friend, showing way too much cleavage.
Further down, your own ex. A post about his football non profit. Unfollow.
Next, your other ex. Married now, posting a picture of his brand new six pack abs. You smirk and don’t unfollow him, because it mildly amuses you to see his scantily clad calls for attention, the same reason you’re still following the girl from high school you never spoke to, who makes an appearance in the next picture.
You continue scrolling, fast now because the promise of entertainment from this app is slowly waning and making you restless.
And then you stop.
Scroll up just a bit.
There.
Right in front of you.
The tiny thumbnail picture of the man you have a crush on.
It’s funny, you never thought you’d say man and crush in the same sentence. He’s posted something after two months. Not his face, not the weather, not some wannabe poignant picture of a derelict alleyway with a cheap filter and a borrowed caption. It’s a post of his latest animation, that he probably coded lying down casually in bed on a Sunday between his morning dose of Economic Times and his afternoon reading sesh (you think he likes reading Manto but you’re not sure it’s his Sunday vibe, so you don’t feature that into your imagination).
And then you scroll further. Slow now. Not really taking in anything. Memes. Selfies.
Comic strips come and go. By the time you’re back to the present, you’re already looking at pictures posted last night. With a pang of guilt you continue.
A quote with a bright background. A close friend’s terrible attempt at sketching. A stranger you follow in her latest gym attire (holy shit she got so fit so fast!). Because you like to know what exactly is up in their lives, three celebrities one after the other.
Your ex best friend with her new best friend. Your token cool colleague. And (just before it’s time to get off the cab) the guy who took his life last night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Nom Nom Nom *Sigh*

I had cookie batter for lunch today. All of it.

I feel like I have a hangover now. Without all the happy memories and mystery bruises. I feel guilty and sorry and I want that cool device that Hermoine used to use to get to classes (time-turner?) to undo my eating of this cookie batter.

People do it all the time. Everywhere. I think. People want to lose weight, they don’t eat the cookie. But then they get so hung up on not having eaten the cookie that their whole life is about the cookie. And then they eat the cookie and stare at the rest of the cookies and sigh because saying ‘Fuck’ out loud is not appropriate in most guilty-cookie-eating situations.

I just… I don’t know… I really appreciate chocolate. I live alone. I am single and unemployed. My closest relatives live in Oman, which, let’s face it, isn’t even really Asia if you come to think of it. Chocolate just seems to make it all feel alright. But I can’t even enjoy some nice cookie batter without some part of my mind questioning my actions.

Are you sure you don’t have the munchies?

Why did you even start with cookies? Who BAKES cookies?

Do you know how much cardio it will take to burn all those calories? Do you know how many calories you have to burn in the first place?

And I’m just here like AAAAAAAAAAAH THAT’S SO OUT OF SYLLABUS!

So I got out for a run in the evening but got back after a kilometer because I forgot that I’m out of shape and can’t run more than a kilometer. I ran slower than internet explorer on 90’s dial up, but I ran. Turns out, no amount of motivational quotes or health facts can get me to exercise the way an ‘L’ label on the Zara pants that (finally) fit me can. And in the hour that I took to complete my kilometer run (ok I wasn’t that slow, I had to keep stopping because my ponytail wouldn’t hold), I thought of the deeper things in life, like how raisin cookies pretending to be chocolate chip cookies are the main reason I have trust issues.
And somewhere between stopping from excitement because I thought I was thinning down (I wasn’t, my sweatpants came untied) and re-tying my ponytail for the billionth time I realized, nobody cares. What does it matter if my waistline is 24 or 34, whether I have a thigh gap or bat wings (fitness-freak terminology for arm-jiggle), whether I can run a kilometer or ten? Besides, I’m in India. There are people who live as vegetarians or don’t eat egg all their lives (so half the desserts are off the table). I can’t compete with people who’s religion has a built in weight loss plan. No. If I’m not getting any joy out of it, nobody else is either.

If you gotta force it, leave it alone.
Relationships, workouts, ponytails. Just leave it.
Life is too short to not have cookie batter for lunch. 

P.S. I also finished that jar of Nutella. Yes. 

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.