Let's take a hypothetical character—a woman, plumpish of appearance, who spends a lot of time staring at and sharing her once-upon-a-time slim pics. Even though she would like to believe her Facebook friends who insist she's gorgeous
right after she calls them smoking hot, she doesn't like what she sees in the mirror. Her state of mind is like a pendulum—swinging between proud-to-be-me and dissatisfaction with her extra-large curves. But her pesky little inner voice keeps telling her she's lazy and too mortified to take the big step. Till one day she can't bear the burden of her procrastinations anymore. After much self- loathing and soul-searching deliberations, she walks into a commitment that she thinks will change her life.
She approaches him gingerly because she knows it's she who has to make the first move. She notices he's bulky, his muscles rippling, his eyes red from whatever he's been taking. She really doesn't care. With a lot of good comes a little bad and she's ready to embrace it all. She takes a deep breath before she croaks, "I've got a big problem." He turns around, sizes her up and replies with a smile—"Don't worry, madam. Together we will make it smaller."
You can do it any time you want, unlike sex that requires a willing partner and favourable planetary alignment.
Thus begins their journey of turning her bhains into tight-ass. He's her dartboard and she has pinned all her hopes on him. She's convinced that her knight with his shining dumbbells will rescue her from her large-sized jeans and squeeze her into size small. She has already dreamt of the looks of envy her friends will give her once she sashays in her skinnies that cling to her like fungus.
It's not as rosy as she's imagined it to be, although she always ends up looking like an over-heated tomato, her hair in disarray once he's done with her. The first few days she can't even walk straight.
Sick bastard, she mutters to herself.
It's a love-hate relationship. He's so brutal with her! Makes her carry weights, swing kettle-bells, run for her life, jump up and down while he sits like a lord and master ordering her around.
Some days when she's grunting, screaming obscenities because it's so painful, sweat trickling into her eyes from her eyebrows, and the brute who has promised to transform her screams WATER BREAK, she's afraid she'll actually pop out a baby.
Dammit, this is worse than labour. At least the original one had the good sense to stop after 12 hours. But this one keeps getting even more painful with each passing day and what's more, she keeps coming back for more!
"What's wrong with me?" she thinks. "Is this my fifty shades of grey?" She can't help looking for saws hidden in the corners and velvety handcuffs tucked under the bench while stifling her giggles.
Her reverie is broken by Jag's rough voice commanding her to do three sets of burpees followed by jump squats.
As she wipes sweat from all her crevices in the changing room, she can't help but notice how her once snug track-pants now hang loose like pyjamas. She stares at herself a little longer in the mirror, her eyes caressing her newly discovered curves.
Your performance is rated by a machine with no emotions and the result is definitely not a wailing baby that poops and pees all the time.
Initially, she'd be a little embarrassed by the dudes pumping iron all day at the gym, who'd look at her lovingly, a slight smile playing on their lips. Then she realised they were simply looking at their reflection in the mirror.
So this is what self-love feels like. Hmm.
These days as she strides in confidently, her gym bag slung over her shoulder, her badi ass chiselled to perfection, she can actually smell the testosterone. She looks around at the hall filled with men and women grunting together, breathing heavily, their eyes closed in ecstasy as their flip monster tyres, their muscles knotted as they do push-ups—and she's struck by an epiphany.
Whoa, working out is like sex! We warm up to the act with a foreplay of stretches, the act takes the wind out of our lungs and once we are done, we are filled with euphoria even though we're exhausted like hell. No wonder all of us keep coming again and again like addicts, despite the sweat and pain.
Oh, wait a minute. It's even better than sex!
You can do it any time you want, unlike sex that requires a willing partner and favourable planetary alignment. And with as many men or women and still not be called a whore, but just a fitness addict. The handstand definitely feels better than a one night stand even though your blood vessels threaten to erupt any moment. Why, you don't even have to take your clothes off!
Now this is where hypothetical character number 2 steps in—me, dying to give gyaan because I feel she's running out of reasons.
Darling, I whisper in her ears—it's even better when you're single. You don't even need a partner to do it, unlike ordinary mortals who need to go through a series of bad Tinder dates to settle for the least obnoxious. And for those incapable of finding any, this is the most huffy-puffy you can get. What's more, unlike the real deal, this can last for hours. Why do you think marathoners get up at 4 even on a Sunday morning to just do it?
Look around you, girl. This place is jammed with tinders—Satinder, Jatinder...
The only protection you'll ever need is a blocked nose to prevent you from swooning from their body odour.
The only protection you'll ever need is a blocked nose to prevent you from swooning from their body odour. Your performance is rated by a machine with no emotions and the result is definitely not a wailing baby that poops and pees all the time. Damn, you can even watch an exercise video to get new ideas to make your workout more exciting and not have to delete history. Why, you don't have to be in a monogamous relationship with your regime—in fact the more the merrier.
At this point, both of us, plant our behinds delicately on the Swiss ball, start doing crunches and orgasm together.
In between panting hard and trying not to choke on my spit, I do manage to tell her—look, sex is a great workout too. According to urban legend, a good session burns up to 1800 calories but I have sinking feeling you have to be an Olympic level athlete to achieve it.
You think, I should take to celibacy, she pants back? Of course not, I say, while more sex may not motivate you to pump harder but gymming hard will definitely make you the insatiable sexy siren that your man has often dreamt of. Thanks to all the gruelling sessions, you can now twist and turn, stand on one leg and give him such a complex, he'll have no option but to start working as hard to keep up with your moves. Pretty soon, he will read my article again. And instead of feeling like killing me, he will nod his head in agreement, just like a Kathakali dancer.
Do you think those characters on the walls of the Khajuraho temple were all avid gymmers?