The post dinner conversation in our drawing room turned to the subject of portion control. The missus, who is a bit of a fitness nazi, made a couple of pointed remarks about my waist which I broadmindedly overlooked.
"Missuses will be missuses" I tell myself on such occasions, "they mean no offense".
This time, however, she seemed more determined than usual.
"Naren, you have grown fat"
"Amma, that's not true" piped up the son
That's new, I thought. The lad actually defending me. But I had been too sanguine
"Annie has grown FATTER"
"Haha"
"Haha"
These things rankle.
"Don't think I can't reduce, ok"
"Indeed! Why don't YOU practice some portion control and show us?"
"Why only portion control? I'll exercise"
And I kicked myself almost as soon as I spoke, for the lad and the missus had an exercise bicycle up their sleeve. I should have known. It was a trap.
"It has a calorie counter" said the missus, singing paeans to this wonder machine "And you can increase and decrease the resistance at the touch of a button"
"It's very cool, Annie. It even measures your pulse"
"Pulse?"
"And it has a cereal number" he added, randomly
They dragged me to an establishment that trafficked in these things and forced me to buy one of these blasted contraptions.
"It's too large" I protested "It will only eat up space in the room"
Upon hearing this the busybody salesman demonstrated how it could be stood upon its head and tucked into a corner, sealing the deal.
So, at the moment of going to press, yours truly is sitting on an exercise bicycle whose seat is most unkind on mine and pedaling away. Life.
