It is said by work-out moguls that the last few pounds are the toughest to lose. You tend to feel overly happy with your new weight that you feel that one piece of brownie with your evening coffee is okay to eat. I’ve been carrying my last few pound for, lets see, forever and they have decided to set up camp and not let me go. My magic number is 33 and this is when you stop letting your Indian brain from doing wrong conversion. 15 kgs is a heavy weight to carry around and my most important reason for shying away from colors like white and peach. I mean, who wants to look like a golf ball when you can actually do dark?
So a couple of weeks back, I bullied myself into going to the forbidden land of community gym at home. It has not been dramatic: I haven’t magically fallen in love with the study-sized training room but I haven’t tried to cook up reasons for copping out either. My ritual, like playing the part of my couch’s cover, has been constant. I go and train around late afternoon. My ipod gives me much needed company and my water bottle always acts as the savior.
I feel like smiling when I get out. For a person who has been feeling like she needs to re-stock her wardrobe in goth colors, it is a welcome change. I love achy knees, stretchy arms and the urgent need to shower in cold water. So I am not going to say that I have officially become this health-conscious girl that I’ve always dreamed of being. But this is certainly a start to a little bit of health and action in my sloth book.
Update you, I shall. I mean, how can I not, my invisible ones (or visible ones who never leave a comment. Hint, hint.)?