And Running it shall be

I consider myself a graceful woman. I may have a big err.. derriere but it has its advantages. I’m reasonably tall by Indian standards and mostly other women envy me for my height. And I can throw my head back and laugh, with ease …generally I’m cool. I’m not being arrogant. I can recall the countless times I have faded into oblivion at a party wishing that the earth would swallow me. Why did the Mom have to choose such ugly spectacle frames, doesn’t God realize how oily skin and big backsides can permanently mar a budding teenager’s confidence ( you gotta realize 20 years later that lack of confidence is a given!). You wish your Mom knew how to buy smart clothes for you, you wish your Dad had more money so that you could buy those ‘ Lose 5 kgs in 5 days’ pills ( so what if you passed out a couple of times), you wish that girls didn’t buzz to you coz you had good looking boy cousins and therefore demonstrated how exceptions make the rule..blah blah blah. But now I’m cool with who, what I am. Really..Ok my thighs can do with some urgent surgery which wont need to be too fine coz there is a lot of fat that can be hacked away by even a butcher, some bigger assets and some smaller ones will make the perfect picture. I wish I had a hubby who earned so much that I could get a liposuction without guilt. And some lazer and some princess cut solitaires. Ok ..I digress, lets get back to the point.
Obviously weight has been a ‘decising’ factor in my life.But being on an endless diet has somewhat achieved results. No matter what the magazines say, its diet and NOT a lifestyle change. I still could gobble half a dozen Snickers in one go, eat some cheesecake and gobble some buttered toast in a jiffy..no lifestyle change will let you do it. As recommended and as per fashion, I am a generally regular exerciser. Aerobics, gymming etc . But when you reach THIRTY SEVEN years of age , for some goddamn reason you want to challenge yourself. Which basically translated into endless nagging of the Lord to sign up for marathon running classes. So that I could tag along. And he, mind you, is quite content and smug about his growing paunch..how I envy him. But nevertheless, he cooperated.
So we embarked and I took off. At aerobics, I always got the rhythm..the mirror in the hall didn’t scare me. Cardio at the gym was flattering and running on the treadmill is a self controlled activity so its easy to press the ‘down’ button if the panting gets too much. But when you sign up for a running class with other accomplished people ( who in their right mind would ever run 100 km in one go???) you are painfully reminded of all awkward and ‘let dharti mata please eat me up’ moments in one go. Coz its easy to start off ..for precisely 150 m. Then the throat starts parching and the tongue drops out as ungracefully as it can. So you remember the tips on breathing and decide to inhale deeply. And that makes you further lose your breath and you give the patiently running hubby a dirty glare. I’ll figure out later why but its gotta be his fault, right? So he slows down so that you can walk and empathetically tells you to ‘do whatever feels comfortable’. So you stop midway ( grateful that he has goofed up yet again but for once at the right time) and in a ‘only for the hubby tone’ which is controlled and sharper than a butcher’s knife challenge him “ So you think I can’t do it? You Iyengars are so arrogant”. He fumbles and responds “ I just want you to be OK”. Me “ I would be OK if you could encourage and be a positive influence in my life”. He “ baby, Of course you can do it”. Me “Harrmmmffff”. Run off.
150 m later ( a marathon is 42000 m only), me “ Lord, I think my flat foot’s a problem” He, sighing gratefully, “ yes of course..thts it..else you would have finished by now”.
Walk for 50 m , then get embarrassed that I will not fit into my mind’s super woman, so I start running, actually jogging..no err doing the filmi run to your hero in slow motion kind of desperate movement. Arms flay around helplessly, feet drag ( Melvin the instructor has told me that I must land on the balls of my feet when I run). At this point I could tell him a thing or two about balls and how they can be crushed and give pain a new meaning. But nevertheless, my Mama told me that hard work pays off. So I drag feet further and I inhale and hence the lord gets even dirtier looks. He finally slinks away running as fast as his feet can carry him ensuring that I cant catch up. Harrmmmfff. Never mind, I shall not give you the pleasure by divorcing you. He will stay with me and be subjected to everyday torture just like I have to endure in this ridiculous running class.
And as you drag yourself to the finishing line and the others cheer you ( I’m a trainer..I know cheering is only for losers, you …losers) you smile and inhale. Oxygen precludes you and the head is pounding and the knees don’t hold you up and you collapse with your derriere et height. Grace is not happening. Running is not happening. The Lord is praying to Tirupati Balaji fervently.

The author is proud to report that she ran 3.2 km this morning stopping every 20 m. That is an improvement from last week’s ‘Stopping at every 10 m’. My Mama taught me perseverance.