Showing posts with label Fitness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fitness. Show all posts

Ash you like it

Image courtesy

I wish I had the same friends and well-wishers that Aishwarya has. It’s been over five months and the lady has yet to shed her post-natal fat. Yet all I hear is applause for letting nature take its course and bravado for choosing to spend time with her baby instead of sweating it out in the gym. When questioned about her larger than life appearance at Cannes, Ms Bachchan proclaimed that she’d rather be “healthy” and is no mood to listen to people’s recommendation when it comes to dieting.

Personally I have no problems with Ash flaunting her flab in the tents she wears. In fact I am also happy for Abhishek for getting more than he bargained for.
My problem is why weren’t you there to defend me, when I had started looking like Dolly Bindra’s distant cousin during my pregnancy. My “alleged prettiness” was referred to in the past tense and I was branded a moti for no fault of mine. By my last trimester, I couldn’t see my feet and my feet couldn’t see the sky. I was waddling like a penguin and even my Mom (after a lifetime of accusing me of being too thin) had started sniggering at my new shape. My clothes refused to accommodate me and I refused to recognize myself in the mirror. Things took a turn for worse when a heavily pregnant me was asked by sweet little girl in my school – Didi, are you married?

How dare she assume that I am this fat! I mumbled to myself as I shed copious tears for my lost vanity.

The next few weeks whenever I met strangers, I made sure that I acquainted them with my marital status before disclosing my name. Guess what! I am married. By the way, I am Purba.

Butt Unnaturally!

Ever since man stood straight, built a fire and made the wheel, women have been asking him a question; even after centuries of interrogation, he has yet to come up with a satisfactory answer. She cajoles, she pleads. He clears his throat and makes polite noises. She insists but he dare not tell her the truth.

How many times has your girl asked you if her bum looks big in that dress? And how many times have you lied glibly and said – “Fat? Are you kidding me?" and fell down laughing. Even if her butt looks big enough to cause a lunar eclipse!

But men can’t help lying, can they? They know from bitter experience that the truth will cost them their head!

With evolution men folk have learnt that she doesn’t mean what she says. Of course she knows the truth! She has a mirror, a measuring tape and a pair of jeans that doesn’t fit her anymore. What she really wants to know is – Darling, do you love me, despite my big bum! Do you still think she’s the goddess, she once was?

It’s never about the butt!

Women have it bad. We love to eat but would rather starve. We’ll huff and puff on treadmill, fold ourselves in half in the yoga class, yet the weighing scale needle will refuse to budge. Imagine the torture of seeing your man gorge on scoops of ice-creams while you chew on multigrain khakras! But you are human aren’t you? How long can you deprive yourself! You fantasize about it, day and night. You agonize over your dilemma – should I – should I not? And there comes a day, when you cannot take it anymore and succumb. As you sink your teeth in that delicious chunk of gooey chocolate cake, you sigh. Gosh! This feels so good. But your mind is screaming – Stop! Run! There’s still time! But you can’t and before you realize it, you have gobbled up three slices. You lick your lips and let out a small burp.

Now you can’t get rid of the guilt. Damn you woman! Whatever happened to your will power! I have sinned and now I’ll have to pay.And guess what, you end up paying a “heavy” price! That butter, the wheat flour, the whipped cream, all that sugar and chocolate, felt so at home in your body that they are now clinging to your bum.

Courtesy - Nike

Butt wait! It’s not always the posterior. It depends on whether you are an orange, an apple or pear. Fat spreads itself evenly in an orange, just like a well buttered toast. If you are an apple, it makes you a 38D and you have to bear with men having intense conversation with your boobs. And the pear is just about to bid adieu to the fatty deposits, till those pesky things discover her bum.

Imagine being compared to a fruit! And to add insult to injury is that skinny friend of yours, who eats like a horse and looks like a French bean. You are tempted to do an Amitabh Bachchan in Deewar, go to a mandir, cling to the ghanti and demand insaaf.

Science tells me my body stores fat for the sake of my child bearing hips. Excuse me! My child is an adult now who can’t stop complaining bitterly about her own imagined ‘weight gain’! So please, can I have my old butt back?

And you though it’s every girl’s dream to find the perfect guy. Bullshit! Her dream is to eat everything without getting fat. And don’t you try pacifying her with – I just love your childbearing hips.

P.S She hates her big bum.

P.P.S she’s insanely jealous of your skinny ass!
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Freaked out about fitness

I have many pet phobias.  It’s not as if I love collecting them.  They land from nowhere and get terribly attached to me.  As I grew older and wiser, they altered in character and shape.  From tail-dropping lizards to cobwebs on walls to the fear of having nothing to do – I have been through them all.   The newest entrant to this exclusive club is my phobia of getting fat.  Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against fat people as long as I don’t have to share a seat with them.  They are usually a jolly good species and can devour bucketfuls of fried chicken minus the guilt pangs.  An extra inch on two blends in harmoniously with their wide girth. Secretly I envy them.  It is me I have a problem with.  You see, I was born with a manufacturing defect.  I have wrists so thin that bangles slide down my arms like an avalanche in a hurry.  Europe doesn’t make shoes my size.  My dainty frame allows me no concession for extra kilos.  And to make it worse that stupid gulab jamun (ok make that two) I sometimes succumb to makes its way to my cheeks!   

Imagine your embarrassment when a more than well endowed Mashi of yours sizes you up and says...Aahh P has become fat!  Secretly you are sputtering with rage and dying to bellow How dare you call me fat! When was the last time you checked yourself in the mirror... you stupid Cow!  With your appetite buried deep underground, you barely touch anything at the party, while your dear Mashi’s face is strategically hidden behind the mountain of Biryani she’s ingesting.

The Tyranny Of Beauty......

Courtesy:Google Images
Do you know why so many of us love watching Nigella Lawson’s show on TV?  She may be a cooking show host but I for one never watch it for the recipes.  A strikingly beautiful woman, spilling out of her dress, she makes gluttony look like a form of art.  It is a sheer joy to watch her pour cartons of double cream, slabs of dark chocolate, a dash of rum – and as she gleefully adds a dollop of butter, you almost choke on your coffee.  Her eyes light up as she whips the concoction in a bowl and closes her eyes in ecstasy as she takes a lick.  Nigella takes erotic pleasure and delight in her cooking and eating.   Later as she opens her mammoth refrigerator to fix up a midnight snack for herself, you can feel her rapture as she puts a spoonful of bacon in her mouth.  You derive vicarious pleasure in watching her surrender herself to her gastronomic indulgences. You sigh wistfully as you munch your bowl of roasted gram.  Here’s a woman who loves her butter and carbs and is not apologetic about it.

Very different from the woman of today.  Let me rephrase that.  Very different from the woman that society insinuates, directly or indirectly, that women be today.    

At one level, the new millennium femme has emerged triumphant after decades of struggle against a social order that asserted man as supreme. You are but a mere extension to him... is what she was made to believeSmothered by a long list of don’ts imposed by society and religion, her rights were denied, opportunities curtailed, her voice silencedNot anymore.

I know what I want and usually get it – I have learnt my lessons from History.  She is now aware of her reproductive, marital and political rights and doesn’t hesitate in asserting herself.  She fights for what is due to her at her workplace.  She is unapologetic about indulging on herself.  She is focussed and wears her many hats effortlessly.  Yet, at another level, she struggles to conform to stereotypical notions of beauty imposed by society at large.  She toils at the gym, gets her hair re-bonded every few months, prefers French manicure.  She starves, goes under the knife, takes painful injections in her eternal quest for beauty.   As Germaine Greer has so succucintly put A woman lives in the terror of her bum looking big.   I hate my nose, change it please.  My laugh lines make me feel older, I want them erased.  Flabby thighs, crows feet, close set eyes....they all dent my self-esteem. With beauty, I have the world at my feet.

But how many of us can be that woman?   A friend of mine dreads meeting her friends from school.  Every time they do, all they can exclaim about is her post-baby weight.  Barbie with no individuality or character is the beauty icon of today, transcending the oriental and the occidental.  Teenagers starve themselves because they want to look like Katrina Kaif.   They want bikini perfect bodies and greedily devour their favourite star’s health gyan!  Ooh I love lauki, I snack on seeds, I meditate for an hour....A pack of lies if you ask me.  Most of them go on extreme diets surviving on just orange juice for days and work themselves to exhaustion with their fancy trainers.

But why blame them.  Sushmita Sen is ridiculed for her yo yo weight. The media derives sadistic pleasure in highlighting a celebrity’s cellulite.  An unwanted tyre on her midriff is captioned with a what was she thinking!!  An actress in her 30’s is considered past her prime.  Wrinkles, mismatched shoes, bed-heads are the new cardinal sins.  Kate Moss makes a reappearance on the catwalk for her friend Marc Jacobs and all the world can talk about is her wrinkly, sagging behind.  The world would rather go gaga over Demi Moore who spends millions on surgery!


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