Deflate belly, inflate ego.

We are inseparable. I’m never too far from its tender loving ingredients, and it refuses to leave my wobbly belly and thunder thighs. I can’t compromise on food. I won’t. Therefore, I gym.

Also, childbirth left my mobility at the mercy of exercise, but I’m too much in love with the little cutie patootie right now to rant. I’ll save it for when he pisses me off. Give him a second.

Meanwhile, please take a moment to join me in the magical journey that is my everyday workout session at my new gym*.

Title: Fitness For The Fabulous
Super exclusive gym. Like, seriously don’t call us, we’ll call you.

One does not associate words like boutique with gym. But that’s because one is not invited to join my gym. My gym is an exclusive boutique gym in Kuwait. Perched high above the plebs on the 37th floor, it offers me the privacy and exclusivity I deserve. And by repeatedly chanting “my gym”, I reach a higher consciousness that is reserved for the highly conscious select few. At my gym.

Every morning as I step out of the spiritually-elevating elevator ride into the fresh, rejuvenating air of my gym, I am greeted by my butler, Kay**. What? Yes, I have a butler. Don’t we all? She brings me temperature-controlled water in my freshly cleaned bottle, as per my request. Nay, my demand.

Laid next to the personal trainer’s workout plan for the day, is my luxury face towel #15. Why #15, you ask? So that my towels don’t get mixed in with the others. Can’t be mixing with the others, even if they’re non-plebs.

During my work out on state-of-the-art equipments, Kay offers me headphones. I choose to play my music on the speakers instead. It’s like they say in the fitness world, go big or go home. I use my treadmill’s interactive screen to keep up with all my inactivity on facebook, draw inspiration from Missy Elliot on Youtube. I quickly learn that running and typing isn’t very easy. Maybe I’ll ask Kay to type for me next time. And if I tire of the glorious panoramic view of Kuwait’s crystal blue waters from the 37th floor, I choose to run along the streets of San Fran or New York on my screen.

By my 12th squat, I accidentally let out a grunt to push through the pain. I looked around in embarrassment; for a second there I forgot where I was. HA! As if. Up on the 37th floor, I do as I please.

Did I mention my gym is on the 37th floor.

After my workout, I head in for a shower. What should I use today? The bronze tinted overhead dumper showerhead? Horizontal body massagers? Good ol’ handheld?

The L’occitane products are lined up on the dresser at my disposal. I turn down Kay’s offer to blow-dry my hair. I hope I didn’t disappoint her. It’s the third time I turned her down this morning; I said no to her offer to bring me coffee and breakfast, too. I wear the dress she has neatly ironed for me, and leave behind my gym clothes – they’re too sweaty for me to touch. They’ll be washed and ironed for me in the morning. As you do.

It’s only been a week and I am confident I will turn into the Goddess they guarantee***, but right now I descend from my 37th floor fitness haven, and stand among the normal. Yet, deep inside my shallow core, I know I’m special.

gc

Disclaimers:
* I have withheld the name of the gym because it could interfere with them accepting my Instagram request~~.

~~Just kidding. I get access to all Social Media accounts as soon as I hand over my kidney. Just kidding, I mean credit card. Haha I miss my kidney.

** Let’s call her Kay.

*** They don’t guarantee results, but let’s put it this way: I will lose weight in 1 of 3 ways –

  1. Fantastic workout plans and Nutrition advice.
  2. The speed at which the glass-walled elevator drops down from the 37th floor makes me shit my pantaloons every day.
  3. The money I’ve spent on the membership leaves me with very little to spend on food.

 

 

 

Advertisements

Gotta get me some gym

drumbells

Two ice cream sandwiches, one banana ice cream bar (lovingly and locally called Banana Lolly) and a slice of super-indulgent double chocolate praline cake. Make that two slices.

It’s 3.20pm in the afternoon and that’s my dessert count so far. It may just be 38-degrees outside, but under the 20-degree air-conditioner chill, even my excuses seem to have their mouths frozen shut.

I feel the need…the need for high intensity cardio and weight training.

The funny (pathetic, if you want to be specific) part is that I’m not even a dessert person. I’m a memory eater. I eat because it reminds me of a time, a place or a person. And being back home with my family has brought back a lot of memories. Very, very tasty memories.

Sandwich ice cream from the ice cream cart outside school for a few coins. 2 soft chocolate biscuits tenderly holding together a cake of creamy vanilla ice cream. It would crumble and drip down my fingers and uniform before I got home, doing just what it was meant to do.

Banana ice cream on weekends after a big lunch. Mum, Dad, sister and me, huddled close together on the couch in front of the TV, slurping on the magical taste of togetherness.

(I have no personal bond with the cake I destroyed other than a carnal need to consume that rich, gooey chocolate. So I’m getting another slice. Don’t even.)

Then there’s mum’s dals, chicken curries, creamy chicken pies, pizzas, Kheema (mince meat curry) and many other dishes intrinsically linked to my happiness. Food that mama and I ate together after I got back from school while I filled her up on all the news, snacks that I scoffed down before rushing out the door in the evenings or weekend staples that always tasted the same and never disappointed.

Like mama’s grilled chicken. Every Friday morning (Weekends in the Mideast are on Friday/ Saturday), we had to clean our room plus an additional chore. Then we were free to go out and play. Growing up in an apartment meant no backyards or corner parks. There were buildings all around us with scorching hot concrete under our feet and blazing hot sun above our heads. Glorious. We played ball, we played house, we pretended to be detectives and thieves. We sweated and laughed and cried.

When I’d run past kitchen windows, my senses would be cushioned with the plethora of scents from different homes. Indian, Asian, Arabic, Continental. Love, affection, happiness and care.

It was time to surrender to the fragrance that was taking over our home.

That’s the thing about food. I savour that memory for time spent with my parents, cousins and friends, but I know that it was Mama’s Friday grilled chicken that holds it all together in my heart.

This was originally meant to be a post about hitting the gym. I think it’s pretty clear how well I’m doing with that.