Saturday, October 23, 2004
Body Mass Index
Making a comeback on the weight index, I am afraid. Visions of being fat-boy-around-the-corner dance sometimes before me, and yet, I refuse to go with my brother on his maniacal walks to Carter Road (and beyond), and his perambulations at the altar of the great goddess of fitness therafter. He tempts me, offering me sundaes at Baskin Robbins after the evening's quota of sweating needless bullets is done, but I manage to resist, content to stay at home, play spider solitaire for the umpteenth time on the computer, and feel my belly burgeoning. A mental picture that the world will never forgive me for unleashing upon it.
But I am gaining weight, they say. Poor, misguided Sharon says, it shows around my chin when I smile my zillion-dollar smile, and since I do that about once every forty seconds, I suppose she was trying to be polite when she told me that it's noticeable "at times". Sigh... I will reconcile myself to playing Gloria Gaynor's I will survive on the stereo, while I play my umpteenth (+1) game of spider solitaire. There are those chocolates in the fridge, the pile greatly diminished from the mountain that had been stuffed in there only a week back. The sweets that mum brought over from Calcutta are all finished now - Rajbhog Mukuto rules, I hear those scatterbrains in my nightmares roar. My answer: pray Gaynor sings louder! And every time I hear some blooming analyst on Moneycontrol swear that he is frikkin 'overweight' on some frikkin stock, it unleashes violent images before my eyes.
My kingdom for a gym, my kingdom for a cheap gym, is my eternal prayer.... and yet, the only gym in sight is Rs 1500-per-month Crunch next door, which promises to leave my wallet smoking. Working out remains a distant dream, and everlasting hate for smart-alecky gals in a Sion shoe-box who flaunt their gym-connections is a reality.
Welcome to my mad, bad, overweight world.
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