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.

*Scroll down to my previous post for my response to your comments