I am a gym drop-out. Not once, but atleast in three instances so far. I would pay the gym fee, discontinue it after 3 days and say “No time baap, too much work”. Nevertheless, few days after quitting, an out-of-the-blue realization dawns upon me. A holy realization like the holiest Tathāgata. My 'fitness phoenix' emerges from the ash. And impregnates me with hope and fitness consciousness. For once, I feel a strong urge to work out at home. And that’s how I excercise once in every six months. I also have a pair of dumb-bells at home. Pristine. And I often fantasize about that ‘Magic Belt’ for an effortless fat melt-off.
Facebook'ing is inevitable. Else, I would feel disconnected. Given the number of friends I have, the profile pic is an important factor. So my pic would be an epitome of strategy. It symbolizes the pragmatist intellectual within me. My pic is usually a close-up shot from the chest up, hiding my abdomen. Ditto for my matrimonial pic. Also, too many photo sessions, with friends and beyond, have helped me achieve an advanced-level proficiency in diaphragmatic breathing techniques. When I am up for a photograph – solo or group – I know how to breathe. I know how to restructure myself anatomically. Thus, my photographs are always an inexplicable miracle. In all my snaps, I appear with an unbelievably flat stomach. And an unnoticeably raised shoulders. Scientifically, the momentary increase in the height of my torso is a direct function of the momentary decrease in the flatulence of my tummy. That's my honest equation.
To the office, I dress up in formals. Tactfully and with an extraordinary brilliance. I tuck up my formal shirt so well that my tummy doesn’t seem protruding at all. Like a mountain cloaked in tropical trees. Like fog over meadows. When I tuck it up, my shirt’s fold covers about three-fourths of that leather belt I wear. I also have the instinct and the knack to re-adjust and re-align the tuck whenever I am not seated. Usually, I realign my tuck in front of the office restroom mirror. Whenever a fairer-sex is around me - whether in the form of a co-rider in an elevator or as a group member standing by me in office, at a party or a function, I inhale more and exhale less. To give my tummy a naturally compressed look. Overtime I turned out to be a self-trained Pranayama guru.
Whenever I stand before a mirror, I spend more time looking at my waist area. I would cautiously examine my tummy’s condition. And I regret at the metamorphosis. Time changes so many things. Standing there, I orchestrate an alternating compression and decompression for sometime. I also tend to feel my tummy with the palm, while turning 90-degrees to the left, then right and then center. This goes on for a while. I realized I am obsessed with the momentary glimpses of such compressions.
Did I tell you I hate Salman Khan? Very much. Not because he is half-naked. Just because he is fit and handsome. I also laugh at him quite often reminding myself of how Aish dumped him. He deserves it. Besides, I also envy the latest version of Adnan Sami and wish ill of him. Secretly, while feeling a strong urge to undergo a similar make-over.
“Hell! Why are all delicious foods always calorie-rich?” is the ultimate question of my life. 'Delicious Foods' include beer as well. I can’t resist myself at the sight of it. I get tempted and am often delirious. My temptation is like the Satanic temptation. During parties with friends, I tend to become a philosopher. I say to myself “Life is for fun yaar. If not now, when?” and keep chugging away.
My ecstasy has no bounds and my superiority-complex has no limits, when another pot-bellied friend expresses his obesity problems before me. I feel privileged to advise him about good dietary habits. “Eat chapathi instead of rice” I would suggest. Ripples of joy pass through my spine at the sight of persons, at the mall or the movie, who have bigger tummies than mine.
I don't fancy six-packs. Can I atleast get rid of this family-pack?
(This is purely a work of fiction. Resemblances to any person are purely intentional and contrived. Note, this is NOT an autobiographical excerpt of the author)
.
Facebook'ing is inevitable. Else, I would feel disconnected. Given the number of friends I have, the profile pic is an important factor. So my pic would be an epitome of strategy. It symbolizes the pragmatist intellectual within me. My pic is usually a close-up shot from the chest up, hiding my abdomen. Ditto for my matrimonial pic. Also, too many photo sessions, with friends and beyond, have helped me achieve an advanced-level proficiency in diaphragmatic breathing techniques. When I am up for a photograph – solo or group – I know how to breathe. I know how to restructure myself anatomically. Thus, my photographs are always an inexplicable miracle. In all my snaps, I appear with an unbelievably flat stomach. And an unnoticeably raised shoulders. Scientifically, the momentary increase in the height of my torso is a direct function of the momentary decrease in the flatulence of my tummy. That's my honest equation.
To the office, I dress up in formals. Tactfully and with an extraordinary brilliance. I tuck up my formal shirt so well that my tummy doesn’t seem protruding at all. Like a mountain cloaked in tropical trees. Like fog over meadows. When I tuck it up, my shirt’s fold covers about three-fourths of that leather belt I wear. I also have the instinct and the knack to re-adjust and re-align the tuck whenever I am not seated. Usually, I realign my tuck in front of the office restroom mirror. Whenever a fairer-sex is around me - whether in the form of a co-rider in an elevator or as a group member standing by me in office, at a party or a function, I inhale more and exhale less. To give my tummy a naturally compressed look. Overtime I turned out to be a self-trained Pranayama guru.
Whenever I stand before a mirror, I spend more time looking at my waist area. I would cautiously examine my tummy’s condition. And I regret at the metamorphosis. Time changes so many things. Standing there, I orchestrate an alternating compression and decompression for sometime. I also tend to feel my tummy with the palm, while turning 90-degrees to the left, then right and then center. This goes on for a while. I realized I am obsessed with the momentary glimpses of such compressions.
Did I tell you I hate Salman Khan? Very much. Not because he is half-naked. Just because he is fit and handsome. I also laugh at him quite often reminding myself of how Aish dumped him. He deserves it. Besides, I also envy the latest version of Adnan Sami and wish ill of him. Secretly, while feeling a strong urge to undergo a similar make-over.
“Hell! Why are all delicious foods always calorie-rich?” is the ultimate question of my life. 'Delicious Foods' include beer as well. I can’t resist myself at the sight of it. I get tempted and am often delirious. My temptation is like the Satanic temptation. During parties with friends, I tend to become a philosopher. I say to myself “Life is for fun yaar. If not now, when?” and keep chugging away.
My ecstasy has no bounds and my superiority-complex has no limits, when another pot-bellied friend expresses his obesity problems before me. I feel privileged to advise him about good dietary habits. “Eat chapathi instead of rice” I would suggest. Ripples of joy pass through my spine at the sight of persons, at the mall or the movie, who have bigger tummies than mine.
I don't fancy six-packs. Can I atleast get rid of this family-pack?
(This is purely a work of fiction. Resemblances to any person are purely intentional and contrived. Note, this is NOT an autobiographical excerpt of the author)
.
4 comments:
ROTFL !
You write well !
Not that I own tummy of prosperity, but I always liked one simple family pack instead of six packs :)
But that doesn't deter me from jogging 4kms daily :)
U hate Salman..hahahaha :D
Varsha, Ana - Thanks. I hope u enjoyed reading it.
Mohan - All I can say is "wish u good luck" ;-)
sfauthor - Sure, I will surely check it out.
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