It’s always hard to swallow the bitter truth. Harder still, for me, because I was happily living in the safety of a previously held notion. And early this week (like, really early) reality came in and struck my carefully tucked-away notion, shattering it to bits, mercilessly. Leaving me with pain.
Sweet, sweet pain.
It all started at 6.30 a.m. on Monday. Post a weekend of debauchery of the gastronomical kind. Where indulgence knew no bounds. And I set myself free like a hungry child who hadn’t had a sinful meal in forever. Except my previous sinful meal was on, erm…Friday evening.
I don’t know what has happened to me off late. Its like my body is at loggerheads with my mind. It refuses to acknowledge the fact that while I might still be young in spirit, my digestive system and metabolism think otherwise. And have chosen to do what they were bound to do sooner or later. Slow down.
Food no longer digests as quickly. Hunger no longer attacks as often. Energy no longer gets burnt off effortlessly. And the result is more than visible. To me and the world at large. Large, being the operative word here.
This behaviour is not new. And I am reminded of what someone (I think it was my mom, so I’m inclined to believe its true) once told me, that the openness and willingness to eat with undisguised freedom, is a sign of how happy and at ease we are feeling in our lives. So I can blame this horrible condition I have, this greed that has turned me into a delusional pig, completely on Goa. And the happy liberation I felt when I came here. That and the altogether illegal amounts of sea food, red meat and cheap alcohol. Yes, that’s my story and I’m sticking with it.
I have ever since forgotten restraint. I don’t know what moderation is. It doesn’t help that I hang around in a social circle of only boys. Who believe that eating out means going all out. Means nothing is ever ordered in batches of ones and twos. And that every meal must end with dessert. Sinful dessert. I don’t have the faintest memory of loving pork or any red meat for that matter. But here I have discovered what having mid-day meat cravings are like. And I happily give in to the need to satisfy every urge by the end of day. I didn’t know I was the kind of person who has Baskin Robbins on speed dial. Worse still, the BR guy recognises me just from hearing my order.
No longer have I uttered the sinful words, “2 brownie a la modes, please. Both with 2 scoops of chocolate and 1 vanilla,” than he knows which way to go. At first I felt enchanted and thought it was kind of endearing that he knows me. But now, not so much.
To think that I went from being a measured, controlled-eater, compulsive fitness freak to this, only hit me last weekend. Again. I was always the kind who didn’t have to worry about being fat. Or overweight. Always having some fitness regime going, didn’t give me reason to. Or so I thought. Until I realised that all my favourite clothes have been staring at me, begging to be worn for over a year now. And I find that I am inclined to shedding my bra the moment I get home (never have I felt so constricted and stuck inside of my bra) and choosing to is wear only kurtas, loose T’s and those horrible inventions called tunics (which merely make you feel slim, conning you further into the notion that it is not time yet). Being a previously fit person my wardrobe doesn’t feature too many of such items and I find myself recycling the same bunch of clothes over and over.
I knew that it was time to get up and get going. Quite literally so. Because my battle with flab begins with my battle with waking up. My days have gotten so hectic and packed that working out in the evening is not an option. The only time I can squeeze in, with any hope of consistently keeping at it, was to wake up at the butt-crack of dawn. Something I have found umpteen excuses to evade now. Until Sunday evening when I sort of just psyched myself into waking up. And lo and behold, it worked. And yet again, for the millionth time, I am on a routine again. And Jillian Michael doesn’t let you go easy.
I’m trying out her 6Week6Pack. Not with any hope of getting that 6pack, because that will involve cutting back on the intake, which I’m not willing to do yet (what, I’m taking baby steps here, okay?!), but with the intention of getting a really vigorous workout to kickstart my day. And while I perk my energy levels by starting the day with a mug of green tea and freshly cut fruit, I can sense myself feeling better already. Except for the butt that wont stop hurting.
Seriously, you guys! I’m beginning to wonder if I should worry about the fact that I’m slogging my abs off with this 6pack thing and the only thing that seems to be hurting is my butt? Then I told myself that maybe this is a sign that there are parts of my body that are so horribly out of shape that I don’t even know of it. So I will persevere. In the hope that I keep this going. Because God knows I need some endorphins in my life right now.