I have no idea why I lapse into the Ye Olde Dayes…I just do. Imagine an imp with a neck ruff a la dear ol’ Will sitting on my shoulder, nudging me to shake things up a bit.
Anyhoo, I’d had a fever for a bit. Nothing critical but it was on the higher side and I felt bloody awful. There were fevers I’ve danced my way through (literally) but barring that I felt quite weak and miserable. I had weird Frankensteinish dreams which are bits and pieces of everything around me and my consciousness, all knitted together into an unholy mess. For e.g: I had visions of cobras being milked (I know they were damn cobras because my kid loves them and because I was stupid enough to read this article on The Better India) and some friend of the family moving into the home of one Red’s tennis partners. *shrugs*
I dreamt of days of more leisure, less responsibility (because that’s what the mind and body was craving). I kept dreaming of dinos because I was camped out on my kid’s bed while I sent him off to sleep with Red in mine. I had weirdass sound tracks running through my dreams as well because my mind was still preoccupied with setting up my customized playlists on Amazon Music for our own dear Alexa!
All the dream dissection apart, I just want to take some time and appreciate my peeps. I married one of them and made the other but both are equally precious to me this weekend at least. The Lord&Master kept me quarantined and took over the running of the house, poured liquids into me at regular intervals and made sure I took meds and basically kept my germs to myself and kept my grumpy face to my part of the house.
The offspring, and this is uber cute, came up to me for multiple hugs and kisses only to be turned away each time with threats of germs migrating onto him and setting up camp. He finally came up with a solution; he would give me a massage and make me feel better and get heaps of praise for his efforts-making him feel oodles better too. As a result of which, there is a bottle of Jergens which will not see the light of day again. Apparently the surface area of my body merits almost an entire 400ml bottle. I almost slipped out of bed by the time the lotion application got done.
But I have to mention that tiny, soft little hands, gently and delicately massaged goops of aloe-scented lotion onto my face, forehead, hair, roots, up my nose, in my ear and it was *quite* relaxing for the most part. What was particularly endearing was,”Aww you poor baby, you look soooo bad. I’ll make you feel better.” Followed by waking me up from my half-stupor to make me relate to everyone how well he’d taken care of me and what a good boy he was.
And he was…they both were. They let me wallow, they let me heal and MOST importantly…they LET ME BE. Weekends are relaxed but I’m usually the one picking up the slack. Red and brat help out but obviously I wish they were more proactive (Nyah!). And here they were, cleaning up wherever they could and BEST of all…not adding (much) to the mess. It was blissy. Verry, verry blissy.
So, moral of the story? If you’re going to be sick, don’t be a half-assed kind of sick. BE SICK! They love you to bits when you are.
Here endeth the lesson.
Cough, sniffle, sneeze!
Before I started going to the gym, I thought I knew my body. Most of it was bulgy or chunky in places it shouldn’t have been but I did not become acquainted with my scapula, soleus, trapezius as much as I thought I would have earlier.
They were names in an anatomy book but barring that they weren’t too relevant on a daily basis. Now they are. Because they ache, are tender or getting flexed and nudged rudely out of their comfort zone of near-complete inertia.
There’s a small poster in the gym that states, “The trouble is, you think you have time.” And while I try andq get my short arms and legs to move, I realize that time has not been utilized well all that much.
I started out with a mix of exercises while my trainer figured out which ones would go well together and not have me pass out on the floor at the end of it all.
And gradually I got to have a proper routine. I’m refraining from calling it a regime because that makes it sound more rigid and barring my stiff muscles post the workout, there isn’t anything rigid about it. My trainer isn’t a drill sergeant and basically takes care of the people under his care. And he does seem to be able to size up the people who come in.
A gym I briefly went to when MLM started playgroup, had the the usual cliches coming out of it in spades. The too-tight muscle shirt-wearing himbos, tank tops, people calling each other “dude” and trying to surreptitiously flex their muscles when chubby people walked in the door.
The trainers there would usually tell you your BMI and tell you to sign up for a year and get shoes of a specific brand while playing jhango Bollywood beats for you to exercise to.
The place I go to now is unpretentious. It’s largely minimalistic and doesn’t embrace the “gymming” culture by showcasing treadmills and cycles the moment you enter. And am fairly sure *no one* calls anyone “dude” there.
Anyhoo, back to all 5 feet of me. I’m getting to know my adductor muscles daily while my calf and my plantar also make it a point to chat me up. Usually cribbing about being weak from disuse. Maybe if I’d walked to the fridge to snack more often rather than favoring my gluteus maximus for so long.
Speaking of which, no amount of lard on your rear end will come in handy when you’re asked to sit on a ridged object and roll back and forth. So might as well cultivate your hieney as a brief resting place rather than masquerade it like a mini land mass.
But all snarks aside, it is amazing how moving your hand back and forth or standing on one leg for a little bit of time can teach you how wobbly your entire body is. It’s not merely mind over matter; you actually have to make things happen! Willing it to happen is only the first step.
As it is, no other muscle of mine has ever got as vigorous a workout as the ole tongue. That one can bench press a helluva lot of words while scarfing down a large plate of cheesy nachos. Which again go and set up shop at the hips and south of the border.
*emits forlorn sighs*
My body and I are so *not* having a happy reunion till now!
The saying goes like this, “By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food until you return to the groundand to dust you will return.
But for an overweight, brand new gym-goer it kinda goes like this-” The sweat of your brow shall drip in your eyes, burning them while you blindly stumble around thinking, “Why hast Thou forsaken me Oh Lord?!!”
But fear not…for there light at the end of the tunnel! It is damnation (in the form of box-squats, sit-ups, frog-stretches) but with relief and because God rested on the seventh day; so shall you.
P.S: This is an exercise in creative writing and being tongue-in-cheeky. No religions were harmed in the writing of this blog post so in the name of the exercise mat, the barbells and the treadmill do send slimnesss and lard-free bodies unto us.
This is a gym diary. Expect more blood, sweat (swear words) and tears than in the Spartacus series; barring the nudity *winks*
And that is the only nod to the adult humor I’ll be indulging in before I embark on my journey into discovering who is hiding under all the lard lovingly piled on in the last 7-odd years.
How do I know it’s been that exact amount of time? Well despite not being svelte back in the early 2000s either, my life underwent a paradigm shift in 2009. Mommyhood..cue the trumpets and drum roll.
My sleep cycles, metabolism and adrenaline levels went haywire and then they seemed to have plateaud at a point which is neither good or desirable for an almost-37 year old with an active husband and grade schooler.
A therapist I had interned with many aeons ago said I had all the makings of a myopic-personality. It was fed through my inherited myopic vision and it kept me from being able to envision the future realistically with all the curves in the roads.
I thought it was quite a big load of bull and carefully earmarked it as the kind of ambivalent and vacuous utterings I would have to make if I ever became a registered psychotherapist.
At 36+ am neither-a psycho or a therapist. But what I am is a person who hasn’t been careful enough with her health although I have enough sense to know that bacon, grits and sirloin burgers well done with home fries need quite a bit of legwork to not settle around the hips and torso. And am vertically-challenged into the bargain as well.
Definitely not a good half decade of eating and physical health decisions.
But realizations only takes you so far if you lounge around munching on low-fat chips or celery with dip and still aren’t doing anything to push yourself out of inertia.
So for my 37th year am attempting to give myself the gift of good and sustainable health.
I will attempt for more self-control and endurance and not try so hard to resemble a pear. Or a pineapple. Or a tomato.
Damn! Am hungry again!!
I know if I get on this particular pulpit, the few people who do read my blog from time to time might vamoose for good but I can’t help my self. I HATE HAVING COLDS!!!
I mean let’s examine it a bit closely. It’s a half-assed health problem. It’s not even a sickness. But a measly symptom of a larger problem; which often goes away on its own without even needing proper medication at times. And still manages to bring on the misery of a much more serious ailment.
In the world of frauds and duplicity- a cold wins hands down! It’s a minor league health trifle masquerading as a major league disease!
Case in point- your nose is no longer a nose. It’s a toxic tomato that is bipolar to boot since it emits geese-links honks at times and at others is a factory for more slime than ought to be physically possible inside a human body.
A quick digression at this point- slime IMHO ought to be those two-bit flimy-ass barrels which come in all sorts of different colors and keep your kid engaged for all of 20 minutes. Then said object goes back into barrel or gets scraped off whichever surface your kid last left it on and goes in the garbage. End of story.
Back to my woe-is-me tale…
A cold is a particularly nasty piece of work because it robs you of your senses. Imagine a weekend when you want to kick back with the taste of food you shouldn’t be eating, drinks you shouldn’t be drinking and BAM! The mucus mobile parks itself in your head and your weekend brunch is toast. You can’t taste galangal for Christ’s sake! You resort to eating chillies from your Thai lunch instead because the Galactic Ameba who hands out colds and aromats with the same indiscretions deemed that even if your gustatory and olfactory systems are on a lock-out, THOU SHALT ALWAYS SENSE AND SUFFER A CHILLI. Amen.
Why do I really hate colds? My head is heavy, my throat is choked with flotsam-jetsam and I’m cranky enough to be deemed as the twin of the cat lady from the Simpsons.
All I want on a weekend is to not *have* to do stuff. Take it easy…well easier than I do the rest of the 5 days. I want to fob off my kid to my husband and not think about him till Monday morning. I want to stay up late on Friday nights with wine and watch stand up comedy or movies till it’s Saturday morning. I don’t want to have a mini jack hammer going off in my head rendering me useless to read or watch television and I certainly don’t want to be the evil stepmother whenever there’s a moderate amount of noise from the offspring and his toys. Moderately evil mother is what works for me just fine!
A cold is horrid! It holds your taste buds, your sinuses ransom till you gargle, spit, blow, steam the hell out of yourself and at the end all you have to show for it is this- sitting up before 5am on a Monday morning, surrounded by a sea of tissues and remnants of chillies which are travelling down your digestive system with a vengeance!