As I log into my Facebook account, I let out an envious sigh as another one of my distant friends has posted a Transformation picture. For those who are unaware, this is not some sort of photoshopped car-robot ‘Transformers’ image. This is actually a collage of a ‘Before & After’ picture which may or may not include the many touch-ups of Photoshop. Podgy, pimply girls magically convert into stunning swan-like women and grouchy, flabby boys turn into sexy, muscular men.
For years, I have waited to be sprinkled with this beauty-inducing fairy dust. I have stared at my thighs and willed them to decrease in width as I slowly devour an admittedly large chocolate bar. Gradually, I began to doubt the efficiency of telepathic commands to one’s anatomical parts and the existence of one such fairy dust. Finally and reluctantly, I decided to ask one of my friends how they managed this miraculous conversion, in a casual and subtle manner. The ensuing conversation (on Facebook chat) was as follows:
Me: OYE! HOW’D YOU GET PRETTY, YO?
Friend: EXERCISE, BRUH.
I spent the next two hours trying to decipher the meaning of this alien word ‘exercise’. After extensive research on the internet, I finally settled on a collective meaning.
Exercise (noun or verb): It includes the actual, un-imaginary movement of muscles in the body as opposed to lying on one’s behind for the course of the entire day. It can be obtained by walking, running, playing a sport or joining a gym and gradually leads to being fit, which basically means bending down without one’s flabs doubling over each other.
Hence, after extensive self-encouragement, I finally decided on joining a gym. On my first day, I entered the gym with a new-found enthusiasm and not just hope, but an unquestionable certainty that I’ll be fit as a fickle in no time.
The moment I opened the door of the gym, I smashed my head against giant slab of metal. I realised later on, that this metal was actually a hard, sinewy, possibly steroid-aided arm of a bulky man that barely fit in the tight vest he was wearing. To top it off, he had a pair of merciless, body-hugging latex shorts that showed off most of his hairy, jungle legs and other bodily intricacies that I preferred to ignore. He smiled at me apologetically and steadied me while the archetypal birds spun around my head.
As I regained my bearings, I looked around only to observe that there were five other men that had identical bodies. They all had V-shaped torsos, that is, tiny waists coupled with humongous chests and broad shoulders. They were like vague versions of Johnny Bravo, without the blonde hair but with all the man bravado. Highly intimidated and slightly scared of this new species of man, I inched my way through them, towards a trainer.
He demanded curtly that I start with twenty minutes on the treadmill. Shrugging nonchalantly (to look like I do this every day), I hopped on to the conveyer belt. I started it and it was the easiest thing in the world. I laughed inwardly at the sweaty, panting man next to me. I began to wonder why I was ever worried. The trainer walked up to me, on the stationary treadmill on my right. “You’re funny,” he said, without a hint of laughter. He pressed a few buttons on the machine while I stared at him quizzically. Before I knew it, beads of sweat were dripping through my armpits and my calves were on fire. The reason I’d found it oh-so easy to walk earlier was because I was on a speed of one, as opposed to the six that I was trying to live through now.
For years, I have waited to be sprinkled with this beauty-inducing fairy dust. I have stared at my thighs and willed them to decrease in width as I slowly devour an admittedly large chocolate bar. Gradually, I began to doubt the efficiency of telepathic commands to one’s anatomical parts and the existence of one such fairy dust. Finally and reluctantly, I decided to ask one of my friends how they managed this miraculous conversion, in a casual and subtle manner. The ensuing conversation (on Facebook chat) was as follows:
Me: OYE! HOW’D YOU GET PRETTY, YO?
Friend: EXERCISE, BRUH.
I spent the next two hours trying to decipher the meaning of this alien word ‘exercise’. After extensive research on the internet, I finally settled on a collective meaning.
Exercise (noun or verb): It includes the actual, un-imaginary movement of muscles in the body as opposed to lying on one’s behind for the course of the entire day. It can be obtained by walking, running, playing a sport or joining a gym and gradually leads to being fit, which basically means bending down without one’s flabs doubling over each other.
Hence, after extensive self-encouragement, I finally decided on joining a gym. On my first day, I entered the gym with a new-found enthusiasm and not just hope, but an unquestionable certainty that I’ll be fit as a fickle in no time.
The moment I opened the door of the gym, I smashed my head against giant slab of metal. I realised later on, that this metal was actually a hard, sinewy, possibly steroid-aided arm of a bulky man that barely fit in the tight vest he was wearing. To top it off, he had a pair of merciless, body-hugging latex shorts that showed off most of his hairy, jungle legs and other bodily intricacies that I preferred to ignore. He smiled at me apologetically and steadied me while the archetypal birds spun around my head.
As I regained my bearings, I looked around only to observe that there were five other men that had identical bodies. They all had V-shaped torsos, that is, tiny waists coupled with humongous chests and broad shoulders. They were like vague versions of Johnny Bravo, without the blonde hair but with all the man bravado. Highly intimidated and slightly scared of this new species of man, I inched my way through them, towards a trainer.
He demanded curtly that I start with twenty minutes on the treadmill. Shrugging nonchalantly (to look like I do this every day), I hopped on to the conveyer belt. I started it and it was the easiest thing in the world. I laughed inwardly at the sweaty, panting man next to me. I began to wonder why I was ever worried. The trainer walked up to me, on the stationary treadmill on my right. “You’re funny,” he said, without a hint of laughter. He pressed a few buttons on the machine while I stared at him quizzically. Before I knew it, beads of sweat were dripping through my armpits and my calves were on fire. The reason I’d found it oh-so easy to walk earlier was because I was on a speed of one, as opposed to the six that I was trying to live through now.
After 20 minutes of jogging, I was sure that every bulge on my body had disappeared. My spirits gradually lifted up. I began to feel hopeful, as royal trumpet music began to play in my head, the kind that plays at the logo of a 20th Century Fox movie. Feeling a deep sense of satisfaction, breathlessness and possible sudden unconsciousness, I dragged myself to the exit, only to be stopped by the trainer. He gave a hollow laugh and pointed at the cycles.
After I finished peddling with my throbbing knees, I flopped onto the floor, but I was far from done. I pulled weights and pushed weights, with my hands and my arms and my shins and my legs. I bent forwards and backwards in crunches, and sit-ups.
After an hour, my body was in flames. My feet were sore, my limbs were numb, my stomach was knotted, and my head was reeling. I crawled out of the door, crumpled and defeated.
After I finished peddling with my throbbing knees, I flopped onto the floor, but I was far from done. I pulled weights and pushed weights, with my hands and my arms and my shins and my legs. I bent forwards and backwards in crunches, and sit-ups.
After an hour, my body was in flames. My feet were sore, my limbs were numb, my stomach was knotted, and my head was reeling. I crawled out of the door, crumpled and defeated.
But as I reached home, I realized the amazing feat I had accomplished. I had once spent an hour and a half sitting on my couch and staring at a blank TV, waiting for someone to walk into the room to pass the remote to me, just because I was too lazy to get it myself. But today, I had done more exercise in one hour, than I had ever done in my entire life. I felt elated and proud. A sense of adrenaline and achievement pumped through my veins. I came, I exercised, and I conquered. So I decided to celebrate with two pounds of chocolate cake.
I continued going to the gym and celebrating afterwards, but I still didn’t feel the difference. I think my friend was lying. I guess I’ll just look out for that fairy dust now.
I also have a personal blog,Feel free to hit it up.
- AnishaB
I continued going to the gym and celebrating afterwards, but I still didn’t feel the difference. I think my friend was lying. I guess I’ll just look out for that fairy dust now.
I also have a personal blog,Feel free to hit it up.
- AnishaB