There comes a time in every man's life where he enters the bathroom, minimally robed, looks down and while expecting to see his toes, is greeted by a big hemisphere of adipose. A sigh usually follows, maybe a couple of impromptu stretches to alleviate the guilt. Over the course of the subsequent ablutions, certain promises are made. "Fruits for dinner today!" or "No oily food for lunch!" or "I shall have only water today, no beer, while meeting my friends" or "I shall have freshly made mosambi juice instead of Thums-Up". And as the dehydration process with the towel comes to an end, our man confidentally strides out of the bathroom, promising to eat his way to a better life.
Ooh, look, some leftover chocolate from yesterday!
Uhm, where were we?
So there came a time in this man's (viz, mine) life somewhere in the foolhardy summer of 2009 where the sight of the hirsute adipose mass was too much to stomach (Yay! Pun!) and he (viz, I) confidentally strode out of the bathroom and proclaimed, "I am going to join a gym!"
Now I had always prided myself on my relative un-gluttony with comparision to my wild youth where potato chips would be devoured by the kilo. Imagine my chagrin when the intial report from my first gym came back with this shocker: "Too much body fat". That itself put me off and I decided the gym authorities hadn't got their screws on right. So I spent the next two weeks finding fault with the place and finally leaving it, only to go to a mildly more swanky place.
Here, various tools and machines were placed on my person to calculate various ratios and I was fairly confident a report of the form of 'Mild body fat but nothing that won't be solved by 2 months of mild exercise given how well he has been eating in the last 2 years' would materialize. But shock, horror, the cute dietician returned with a small prinout with many numbers and sat down shaking her head.
I feared the worst.
"You have way too much fat content in your body"
"How much?", asked I, knowing that gym authorities, like media salespersons, tend to exaggerate for the sake of promoting business.
I stared in horror. My mind was blank.
The dietician proceeded to explain a few more numbers and told me what to eat for the next one year (!) and pretty much banned anything that has an inkling of taste in it. But it all went over my head as the mental thought of 1/3rd of my person being extraneous deposits flashed over my eyes. It was all too much to take.
Mental targets were made. Now I was serious. Enough of talk. Now time to do something about it. I looked at the report the dietician gave me. Apparently I was 84 kilograms (it's the heavy fiber they put in those clothes I tell you - must have added an extra 8 kg thanks to that), and I should have been 72.
So, summary of the situation:
Present weight: 84 kg
Ideal weight: 72 kg
Fat %: 32
That's when I promised myself I would reach 72 kg by the end of the year (2009). This, ladies and gents, boys and girls, was nicknamed Project 72. So followed a series of green-salad-constituted lunches and the purchase of a rather nifty sprouts maker. I went to the gym in earnest. A few kgs dropped along the way, but sadly, what I thought was conservative junk food intake was quite a lot and compensation happened. Long story cut short: 2009 was not the year Project 72 would see success.
But I was not one to mope. After all, I had a new years' resolution and what better one than this?
So this is the story of Project 72.
A lot of you will no doubt be asking what the current status of Project 72 is. Well, I stopped going to the gym because it was too much of a bother, and I just decided to cut down on the intake instead of eating like a hog and expending all my energies working it off. The result was fairly satisfactory, because my pants got way looser. I was happy, until I stepped onto a weighing machine after 3 months. 82 kg. Sigh. Perhaps that fat ratio had come down and all this was muscle.
And now, I face the prospect of a week in Bahrain with Amma's cooking. These are not good times for Project 72.
But post June 06, when I am back, I shall strictly be off the chips and pizzas, and dust the ol' sprouts maker and endure ridicule at the workplace as I down my green salad and chaas. For Project 72 shall be achieved, and the feet shall be seen again in the mornings.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is Project 72. Expect an update on New Years' eve.