Soooooo, since we all love talking about my weight [oh yes we do! at least, we'd better] let me go ahead and plunge right down to it. I'm not saying I enjoy waking up at 5:30 in the morning and knocking over every article of furniture on my floor to get to the bathroom. To begin with, it bruises. Besides, I can't take a crap under pressure, I just can't. And don't you dare ask what pressure, cuz everybody knows if I don't make it to the gym by 6:25, every treadmill and every cross-trainer in the vicinity will be taken over by musclemen and middle-aged women trying to burn last night's hangover and teriyaki. Which is OK. But if I'm making the effort to gargle with toothpaste before exhaling like an efficient dragon on the treadmill, I expect YOU, and yes I mean you in your orange sleeveless vest panting right next to me on the cross-trainer, to do the same. It's all part of some large scheme to never let me lose any weight, as I've gathered. Now that all else has failed, some greater force is trying to suffocate me with garlicy crap-breath first thing in the morning, the moment I start a slow trudge on an incline. I mean, it's uncanny, this one guy will hang around running his fingers over the weights, and then the moment I'm on the treadmill, he'll hop right on to the c-t next to me, and WHO, i ask you, WHO stuffs his face with garlic first thing in the morning? Well, this dude does. Major conspiracy, I tell you.
And because of this spirited stenchman, every morning I hold my breath till an unhealthy angryish hue overwhelms my entire face, and I'm looking like a perfectly turned out baked tomato. When I can't take it anymore, and I go "AAAAAAAAAHRGH" to fill my lungs with toxic fumes from the neighbourhood, our friendly neighbour will look innocently at me and say,"Good workout, huh?"
Is it any wonder then, that I'm not getting more than 10 minutes of treadmill time? I mean, I'm not a maniac, I'll choose death by obesity over asphyxiation any day, thank you.
Anyway, the other day Page 3 Aunty M and my mother were discussing over ab crunches how they couldn't lose any weight off their stomach because they'd been pregnant. 27, and 23 years ago, respectively. Aunty M whispered conspiratorially that she had once considered joining VLCC. My mother, ever ready to jump the bandwagon, threw her hands in the air and shouted,"Liposuction!" much in the fashion of an elderly person discovering volume in his bathtub in erstwhile Greece.
We're women of action, we are. The next day, my mother and I found ourselves at VLCC. She wanted a tummy tuck because that apparently was the only thing stopping her from being .. yes, you guessed it - Shakira. Me, I just wanted to be able to buy a pair of jeans from the Ladies' section.
So there we were. Polite attendant smiled plasticly and bade me step on a gigantic weighing machine as enormous men in tiny bathrobes passed me by. Measurements and whatnots later, 'twas time for the "Consultation". Here's how it went:
Polite attendant: Hmm. The results of your weigh-in are quite favourable.
Me (starry-eyed): Really? Do I satisfy fatness requirements? Am I really really eligible to pay you tonnes of money to take things off my thighs?
PA: Akchooally, myadam, you are only 4 kilos overweight, according to height-weight ratio.
My Mother: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
My Mother (holding stomach): HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Me: Uhm .. there must be a mistake. According to my calculations, and those of my gym instructor, I'm about 8-10 kilos overweight.
PA (firmly): No madam, only 4 kilos. You will be perfect figure then. I am telling you, no?
Me: Are you telling me I'm 4 kilos away from looking like Heidi Klum?
PA (smiling, she's got the drift): You will look like Priyanka Chopra!
MM (making a dishonest effort to suppress laughter by clutching stomach and looking like Constipation itself): Hnyeh! ...hNyeh hNyeh ... 4 kilos!!!! hNyeh hNyeh... kirom murgi korchhe toke!
PA raises eyebrow delicately.
Me:[Offo! Chup korbe tumi?] Uhm... actually, I have huge thighs, I was looking in terms of doing something about them. I exercise, but nothing seems to come of[f] it.
PA: Please stand and pull up your top so I can observe your thighs. Madam.
Me: Uh ... woah?
PA: I must see your thighs and evaluate them. Madam.
MM: Don't, please. Traumatic experience.
I do as I'm told.
PA (a trifle worried): Hmm. Yes, it is a problem area that requires immediate attention. I will make you a package specially designed for your thigh-type, ok?
Me (aghast): There are thigh-types? What thigh-type am I?
PA (very, very, gravely): Madam. That is confidential company information. I cannot tell you.
AWRITE awrite, so maybe I exaggerated a bit. But most of what I've written is true. Honest.
Anyway, there wasn't any chance my mother was shelling out 11k for an inch and a half off my thighs and buttocks. Like taking a drop out of the ocean, really.
Frightfully disheartened at having missed an opportunity to drain the family finances, I thought up a different plan.
Sunday morning. Breakfast table. Everybody's reading the papers:
Me: I want to pierce my eyebrow.
Mother (not looking up from paper): Hoochie Mama.
Father (not looking up from paper): Tart.