I wonder what I will write today. I think my existence is getting really bloated. I need to trim it down. I feel really bloated too. Two days ago, my pair of white jeans didn’t fit me. I felt really sad about that. The fact that they were an expensive pair of Calvin Klein’s had something to do with it, of course. But more than that, it was a reminder of haphazard, undisciplined living. (By the way, wasn’t ‘indisciplined’ a word? I tried to type it out but it’s getting auto-corrected to ‘undisciplined’.) So, I’ve been eating carefully since the last two days. No rice, only chapattis, and a fairly early-ish dinner. Two days later, the jeans fit. Still snug and not really worthy of tucking in shirts. But I believe I will get there if I keep at this.
Someone needs to whip crack and get me into shape. My life into shape. For the longest time, I’ve believed that life, time, all of that good stuff, is like water. It will swell and find its own level. Now I think there has been enough of that ‘finding own level’ nonsense. Now, it’s time to put it into a rigid, tall, lean casket. The water needs to be contained. And a long and lean container appeals to me. In time, I hope to become a long and lean container.
Long and lean, by the way, is my preferred silhouette. I think that’s a great shape to be. Of course, it’s not the most ‘delectable’ shape. Maybe petite and curvy is sex kitten-ish. But who wants to be sexy when you can be exalted? When a woman is tall and slim – reed slim, no hips, no waist, no noticeable breasts – I think she’s descended from some supremely privileged gold-club. In the hollows of her collarbones, in the sharpness of her shoulder-blades, in the sweet imprints of her rib-cage – I see a sense of blurred, shadowy art. If I were a guy, I’d go for a woman like that. She’d make me feel like aspiring for all that is good and worthy. That’s probably why I love, love, LOVE Deepika Padukone. As long as there are people in the world who look like her, I think it’s all going to be okay.
As a woman, though, my favorite body type to aspire for, is sporty. Like I’d love to have Venus William’s body or a swimmer’s body. Where strength and stamina just oozes out of every pore. There’s something about the way she moves on court that is so feral. Like with every swing of her strong arms, with every flex of her sinews, she’d get nature to do her bidding. She’s as graceful as a storm too. And as fascinating as the sea. Those long, strong legs.
I should put together a sharp regimen and follow it through for 40 days. Here’s what it will possibly look like:
- 2 hours of yoga every day
- 1 hour of meditation
- No salt or sugar in food
- No tea or coffee
- Dinner before 7 p.m.
- Wake up by 4 a.m.
- 10 hours of sleep (not all at the same time. Maybe with a siesta worked in.)
I’ve realized that sleep plays a really important role in getting and staying in shape. Often, I find, that if my body hasn’t had enough sleep for many days, it slowly gives up on me to provide it rest. So it starts looking for substitutes – like food, jerks to argue with, good people to perceive as jerks and then argue with them, fears and phobias, etc. I feel bad for my body then. It goes around like a wastrel, looking for scraps of solace when a bed, pillow, and blankets will do the trick.
It amazes me how I don’t have a fantastic figure with the amount of wisdom built into my head. So, while I wait for time and tide to behave itself and get streamlined (or for the whip cracker to emerge), I’ll keep my blog posts free-flowing. I’ll write what I feel like, when I feel like. Structure will come to writing when structure comes to life.
I’m so smart. I think I deserve a flat tummy.