Monday, April 30, 2007

re-creating magic and aftermath

The other day, I was looking out of my drawing room window and on the other side of our compound wall I saw a couple, presumably unmarried. The tête-à-tête seemed to be the parting event for the day, before the girl is dropped off and after a pleasant date. I wasn’t in the least embarrassed to stare at them; after all, I was on this side of compound wall.

I turned around and said to my husband who was in a state of oneness with our couch enjoying a cricket match “did you hear that?” Without looking away from the TV, he asked, “hear what?” I told him “a void filling within me”. This must have really been too much for him to relate to, he moved his eyes away from the TV only for as long as his eyes could retain the last frame viewed and looked at me questioningly. I said “we must re-create the magic in our marriage” he gave a non perplexed look and increased the TV volume.

Not to be outdone by his reaction (if the above could be classified as one), I decided to use one of the tried and tested (not sure if it ever worked) strategies best explained by this old adage “the way to a man’s heart is through is stomach”. Two things came to my mind: (1) I think it is pretty long winding to get to the stomach first to find something which is exactly half way from the starting point (2) Every once in a while when I start this exercise, I seem to spend considerably long hours in the kitchen to satiate his palate and end up wondering if it’s a real maze between his stomach and heart as I never seem to get to the destination!

Above thoughts didn’t dampen my spirit and I paraded to the super market with my grocery list. Saturday lunch was four course Chinese meal and Sunday brunch an elaborate Mexican and Italian fare. I could sense I was still lost somewhere between the stomach and heart! To bring an element of variety I booked a table for two for Saturday evening for a romantic dinner. I must confess that the food was so authentic that I hardly shifted my focus from the menu card and my plate.

Two more weekends of toiling in the kitchen trying my hand at south Indian (thanks to Yoga for the recipe), Punjabi, an all chaat dinner, high-cal sweet dishes, fine wine, surprise gifts and movie tickets (bought by me) and dealing with daughter’s occasional insecurity pranks (bribing her appropriately) I still seemed to be nowhere close to “his heart”*.

If you are looking for a magical, romantic end to this story, I suggest you stop reading this piece right away. Reality is as follows:

Yet again, I was forced to give up my earnest attempt which resulted in everything else other than the desired outcome. First, my cook threatened to quit her job thinking that I was using my culinary skills to challenge her. Secondly, with a bloated body and battered ego, I decided to use the weighing scale in the gym and realized that much of the food I cooked seemed to have found way to my stomach (hello, wrong address!) and cursed myself for the 4 Kilos added in these three weeks would take much longer to shed. The one that threw me off my mission was my credit card bill - it smacked me back into reality.

* Hubby darling feels that during my treasure hunt, I seemed to have missed the heart and went straight up to his throat and my extra efforts and sweetness was throttling him. He is as relieved, if not more, that I am off his neck.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Gymology

I must confess that I am in love with my body; obsession is more like it. I have always been a fitness freak. I keep switching between brisk walks, jogging, aerobics, dance lessons, rope jumping or gymming. In the last two years, I have been more of gym goer (gymmer?) and I strongly suspect my quest for fitness is becoming more of a mania.

Gymmers are peculiar creatures. They smile at their sweat and let it be, instead of wiping it off. They look at themselves in the large mirrors (oblivious to those around); irrespective of size, shape or age, they make faces and roll up their arms and show off (in most cases, non-existent) muscles. They sneak a peek to figure out your speed on the tread mill, the number on your dumbbells and keep a count of your ab crunch reps and sheepishly turn the other way when you meet their eyes.

There is this other variety, more of a harassed lot - victims of domestic violence (few rare male species I am talking about). These guys just seem to wait for it to dawn to take refugee in the warmth of gymnasium. You will see them there all of morning. (I haven’t tried checking out in the evenings) When you see them you can tell, they just hang out aimlessly. Not always though, you will see them spring into action just when you think you need to use one of the machines (be it the least used T-bar). By some magical power, they read your mind, aim, reach to it faster than your thinking speed, look up from the machine and smile at you triumphantly. At times like these, I wish I could quietly drop the heaviest plate on their weak foot when they aren’t looking.

Didn’t I start off with my state of obsession? Ok, I digressed.

We all succumb to weak moments from time-to-time and end up paying a price for it. Look at Aby Baby, his price is a lifetime of torture with a lifeless beauty. In a deranged state of mind (caused by obsession), I fell for the luxury of a “personal trainer”. The one I chose is the best (read toughest / cruelest / most expensive) or the “star trainer” of the gym. True to his name, there is immense joy on his face at my utmost agonized moments of weight training. If you thought working out your abs meant a few simple crunches then you are desperately behind time in his world of fitness. His back strengthening exercise breaks my back. I perpetually appear crippled as at any given time atleast one of my body parts are sore (with me I am sure, for putting ‘it’ through the ordeal).My trainer’s (reps) count and my count never match and the consistency with which he trails behind every single time freaks me completely.

Whoever said “no pain no gain”, I would like to meet that gentleman (it ought to be one; women don’t sought to such high-handed fundas). I would like to ask him if at some point in the equation will pain equal gain. So far I have seen more of the first.

But hey, I am hopeful that one day my trainer and I will count in unison, there will be no soreness in my body and when I mimic some anorexic model in my little black number* (which I picked up three years back, three sizes smaller for me then. Talk about ambitions!) with a washboard stomach (and a trimmer wallet), I know I am going to feel good.

*After having broken the zip twice and seams coming of a few times, it is to be noted that I finally fit into my black dress (with no casualty). However alternating between breathing and sucking in my tummy is not one of my favourite challenges in life.

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Wednesday, April 4, 2007

Men are non-living things

Kids are amazingly curious. I think we are all curious, but kids live upto their reputation as they spell out their thoughts / questions without any inhibition unlike us grown-ups.

Yoga’s son, a 7-year old who races cars (well, virtually) as if he is Schumacher in the making asks more question than the number of times he breaths and floors his otherwise talkative mom. One afternoon he was back from school and was busy preparing a chart of living and non-living things using parameters (breathe, move etc.) specified by his teacher. He looked up from his work and said matter-of- factly “Amma, I am placing men under non-living things” seeing the confused look on his mother’s face, he was quick to add “men don’t reproduce, right?”

She had a hearty laugh and made a quick call to share this with me and added her muse, “I wish we could be as candid as our kids”.

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