In my quest to become a serious and mature writer, I have decided to stop the frivolous stuff and write metaphorically and purposefully. Rather like the great Russian masters who could hold you spellbound with 400 pages of exciting descriptive prose of a moujik killing himself and some of his family, though not necessarily in that order. My writing probably won’t be that dramatic – indeed, swatting mosquitoes is about the only violence that you will see – but prepare yourself for poignancy and get a bunch of Kleenex.
I have started going to the gym again, after a hiatus of 2 months. It was as inevitable as the night follows the day, given my medical condition whereby 97 percent of the calories consumed by me are added to my waistline.
Doctors and other practical jokers have racked their brains and come up with a most suspicious quack remedy called exercise.
I’m quite certain that it does not work. For many years, the medical fraternity told everyone that ulcers were caused by stress till an intrepid scientist battled skepticism and ridicule to prove that ulcers are caused by H. Pylori which is probably responsible for my waistline as well. I mean, think about it. If you have a practical joker like H. Pylori who can think of no better way of passing time than giving people ulcers, is it going to pause for thought when the opportunity of increasing people’s waistlines presents itself? I think not.
But this is not what I wanted to write about. Pylori, H or otherwise, have our attention and respect but at the moment, our gluteus maximus is hurting bad. This is the direct result of performing a maneuver called Lunges which involves carrying a heavy load on our shoulder and stepping forward, then bending the knee, rising again and returning to starting position. This is supposed to tone up the gluteus maximus, a blameless muscle which spends its life being sat on and occasionally kicked by foes and superiors at work. For all these years, my g.m. suffered in silence, never acting up and taking its trials and tribulations in good spirit. But these lunges have broken its reserve and it has been complaining in the strongest possible terms.
My gym instructor was not satisfied with the pogrom against glutes, as he calls the gluteus maximus. He further required me to carry out a maneuver called squats, which resulted in the quadriceps joining the glutes in protest. Soon, my hamstrings and calves joined in and at the moment of going to press, I am walking in what is known as the “Marathon Horse Rider” style (impolitely also known, for mysterious reasons, as the coconut balls style).
Currently I am surviving. With difficulty, granted, but surviving nevertheless. But I do not vouch for tomorrow. The wife is dragging me to Spinning Class. Well, it was nice knowing you folks. As Dave Barry would say, The Aching Glutes would make a great name for a rock band.