Being gay means you're usually obsessed with your weight. Well, you don't actually have to be gay to obsess about your weight, but that's when you're (usually) glancing all the more at your reflection in the mirror, tucking in that tummy, wishing that ass was firmer than it looks in the cold plate of relflective material before you that seems to cluck its tongue cruelly in judgement. OK, OK, well, things are not quite that bad (or dramatic!), but you get the point.
But there are variations, of course. There's Gupshup who embarked on The Great Diet a coupla months back, but quit later. When it was my turn to lose weight and I asked him what his TGD had entailed, he laughed and replied: "Don't eat anything. That's simple enough to follow, isn't it?"
A bewildered Closetalk stammered and stuttered and said, "But.. but, it can't be that, na? I mean, you lost loads of weight? You looked so great? So what's the truth?"
To which, Gupshup gave another conspiratorial grin, and replied, "Why do you think I quit?"
And then there are others, like Emily, who cribs about his weight and watches it sporadically when he's sipping tea and munching on sandwiches at the Tea Centre (though, to be honest, those outings have dropped to the point of extinction these days), but is pretty much unrepentant about his weight, otherwise. There's Penguin, who's been gymming it regularly for the past couple of months, and for whom Gold's Gym has now achieved second home status. And then there's SnowWhite's Stepmother who really couldn't be bothered to work out in the gym, but who doesn't really need to, since he never gains weight (most unfair!) and stocks up on various low-fat, low-carb, low-everything-and-anything cans from the grocery suburb of Bombay that Andheri is.
;-)
And then there's Me.
A chance step onto a bathroom scale pushed me (rudely!) off cloud 9, as I realised I was a whole 5 kilos overweight! Many minor shrieks later, I call up SS, who grins evilly in the phone and says, "Now that you're fat you won't have any friends! MUHAHAHAHA!" I cursed him for his silly sense of humour and told him to get to the point: how on earth would I regain my svelte 62 kg frame?
And that has led to the chain of events at which my flatmate chortles every evening. That means, coming back from work, locking the door and exercising like a soon-to-be-maniac. That means asking Penguin at a bar recently, "So what's your workout regimen like? I do about 60 ab crunches a day", to which he looks shocked and remarks, "Sixty??? Wow, I only do about 45, and that too on alternate days!" His answer satisfied me: I think I'm on the right track.
The workout mode also involves an enforced dinner of wheat flakes with lite milk - and sugar-free. It involves buying atta Maggi noodles, instead of the regular variety. It involves no-no-ing paneer and potatoes for lunch, and bypassing mutton in favour of chicken. *sigh*
But it's not all been dreary, though. The best part about the new regimen is my regular bouts of dancing in the middle of my exercise count. I started that originally as a warm-up/ to jolt the cramped tummy muscles after a set of crunches, but Twinkle Toes that I am, that's easily become the best part of my exercise regimen. So last night, I boogied to Y-M-C-A, shouting at the top of my lungs, leaping about the room in my shorts, in front of the mirror, performing the latest GB party moves for the neighbours next door who might be peering towards my open window. Next came Gloria Gaynor with I Will Survive, and then I completely freaked out.
By the end of the allotted hour, I was limping and sweating, with a happy smile on my face. And when Boy rings up right then, I explain why I'm panting like a filly involved in a threesome. That's when he chuckles and whispers hoarsely, "God, I wish I could do you right now...!"
*blush and grin*
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