I belong to a family of fitness addicts. Dad and mom wake up at 5am everyday and go for a light jog/walk. My brother has been gymming and thulping down protein shakes, ever since I can remember. And, my grandfather has never missed a morning walk in his life. Quite naturally, my love for junk food and sleeping till 10am came as a big disappointment to them. Forcing me to swim, buying me a cycle and getting me the occasional "one size too small" dress, were constant hints they threw at me, to make me shed the extra pounds.
I was too blinded by my love for food and my oh so divine "sink till you become one with the mattress" fluffy bed, to pay any heed. Out of sheer frustration, my brother took me out for a long drive one day. "Gayu, pizzas and burgers are not food. The amount of carbs and cheese on those things lead to heart attacks, obesity and diseases you can't even fathom. Please lose some weight." For a nano-second, I stopped tugging at the straw of rich chocolate milk shake which I was cradling in my hand, like a precious new-born baby. "But why, Arjun chetta, do you think I should lose weight? I don't think I'm fat", I replied, continuing to sip on the shake. He let out a frustrated sigh and gave up. He took me straight to his gym (Fitness One in Ascendas) and introduced me to his trainer.
After gaping at all impressive equipment and admiring the spacious interiors of the gym, the trainer finally caught up with me and asked me with a smug smile on his face, "You weight about 63 kilos right?". Stunned by his accuracy, I gave him a thumbs up. "So when does she join sir?", he asked my brother. "From tomorrow, just show her the ropes." replied my brother. My fate was sealed. I was petrified of my brother, back then. His word was law. I could'nt go against it.
Thus began my love-hate relationship with the gym at age 19. As for his trainer, not only did he "show me the ropes", he belted me with the rope in question, a couple dozen times. He mercilessly tried to pound all the fat out of me. It was no easy task for him. Poor fellow! The minute I stepped out of gym, I would stuff my face with the biggest chocolate sundae or ghee laden pongal I could lay my hands on. After about a month of personal training, I gained two kilos. I saw a distinct, fat tear-drop roll out of my trainer's eye. "What are you eating, after gymming? Why have you put on two kilos, despite this rigorous workout?" After confessing my sins and explaining to him my logic of "I'm working out, so I can eat double", he threw his hands up in despair. "You're on your own now. My training with you comes to an end. Remember everything I've taught you and please try to stick to it."
What began as a forced ritual, slowly became an obsession. I shed five kilos without even realizing it. Then another five. I was down to 54kilos, at the end of one and a half years. I looked and felt great. I began eating lesser and lesser, until I fainted smack on my face in the bathroom one morning. That's when I realized I was pushing myself too hard.
Over the years, my gymming has been on and off. My weight has been fluctuating between a modest 55 kilos and a dangerous 62. It's nice to comfort yourself with phrases such as "Stop body shaming" and "You're beautiful just the way you are", but the reality is, the minute the weighting scale hits 60 kilos plus, my confidence drops. I hate being fat and I hate my fat genes. Despite my dislocated shoulder, ligament torn and dislocated foot, severe back pain and sprained wrist, I'm back at the gym. A little older and wiser this time, hoping to not break any more body parts.
I've rejoined the fitness center under my house, after a hiatus of two years. The trainers and the receptionist gave me a warm welcome back. One of the younger trainers even gave me a little scolding for not cycling properly. It feels good to be back in my second home, the gym.
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