In 10 sentences or less

In 10 Sentences or Less – Gymbalaya

Post 691 of 930

To-Be-or-Not-To-a-Celebrity

Pratik Basu is a prolific and published author who has worn several caps; cook, housekeeper, animal lover, cigar afficionado and most recently, CEO Buena Vista Television and FTV

Unimpressed by my somewhat strident protestations that there is absolutely no evidence to suggest that I am any less agile than I was 40 years ago when, as a high school football goalkeeper, I would lunge, leap, levitate or, at the mere hint of leather heading in the general direction of the citadel I was chosen to protect, launch myself into orbit, with the grace of a gazelle (or so I would want to remember it as), to fist it out of harm’s way amidst the full-throated cheers of my myriad fictional fans, mostly of the fairer sex (or so I’d like to imagine), my nephew, the dear, concerned soul that he is, recently gifted me a week of personal training at the local health club. On his pithy observation that each time I paused climbing the stairs I wasn’t really pondering the future of humanity, merely catching my breath, I called the club with as much enthusiasm as I could muster and made my reservations for the coming week with a dulcet-toned (and, without doubt, physically toned) personal trainer named Yolanda who identified herself as a 26-year old aerobics instructor and part-time model for athletic clothing and swimwear, which information, truth be told, did much to dissipate my apathy for the project and even got me to agree to keep a diary to chart my progress, as my silver-tongued mentor-to-be advised that I should.

Monday: Habituated over many years to not ever seeing the sun rise, believing as I do that it is only a sunset in reverse and can be caught, in replay mode, at a later, more convenient time of day, I climb out of bed at 5.17 a.m. even before the sun has, and arrive at the health club to find Yolanda the Goddess – she of the dark brown tresses, dancing eyes, dazzling smile and statuesque build – waiting for me, as if she always has been. After the pleasantries, which I manage to extend for as long as I can without causing the kind of awkwardness one can’t quite get out of, Yolanda takes me on a tour of the facilities, showing me the machines, which I find interesting, and demonstrating some of them for me, which I find infinitely more so, marvelling at her skill and agility as she builds up speed and a healthy sweat on a mechanical rowboat. “We’ll start with a light workout today,” Yolanda tells me, because there are too many parts of my body that exercise hasn’t reached, too many muscles that I still have to get acquainted with and, though my gut is aching from holding it in the whole time she’s around to see that I do my sit-ups without self-inflicting irreparable bodily harm, I have a healthy premonition that this is going to be a fantastic week.

Tuesday: I beat the sun to it the second day running and even the neighbourly cock hasn’t uttered a single crow by the time I’m out the door with a tread so light that I might have been riding a sunbeam and a heart even lighter, so high the anticipation of renewing acquaintance with Yolanda who, when she sees me, dispenses her customary high-wattage, blinding white beam and it must be the surplus caffeine in my system that has me thinking that the duration of her smile is nanoseconds shorter than the one she bestowed on me yesterday and that it metamorphoses into a smirk when she instructs me to lie down on my back and begin pushing a heavy iron bar into the air, with weights added on as incentives for coping. Barely surviving the iron rod treatment, I am persuaded by a steely glint and an even steelier smile to climb onto a treadmill, my legs still wobbly, like a drunk’s after a night of extreme Bacchanalia, and, while I’m still trying to find my feet, so to speak, she gradually increases the speed of the conveyor till I’m stumbling and running and stumbling again but grittily determined to complete the 4 km. she has me programmed for come what may, because Yolanda is watching and I feel great already (though, I must confess, the “surprise” she rewards me with at the end of the session – an unrecognizable, bilious green mush she calls a “smoothie” that oozes out of a blender – does not go down smoothie, if you know what I mean).

Wednesday: The only way I can brush my teeth is by laying my toothbrush, at a height, on the bathroom counter and running my mouth back and forth over it, though that gets the hernias in both pectorals to act up, and driving to the health club is fine so long as I don’t try to steer, change gears or stop hurriedly, which has me parked on top of a Tata Nano in the parking lot. Goddess Yolanda is impatient with me today, insisting, in a voice that is a little too perky for this early in the morning and, when she raises it a timbre, too nasally challenged for my pain-addled brain to take, that my screams yesterday had bothered other club members and if running on the treadmill was such agony, I should get on the stair monster, though why anyone would invent a machine to simulate an activity rendered obsolete long ago by elevators and escalators is anybody’s guess. Yolanda tells me that it’ll help me get in shape and enjoy life and, as I try to keep my pain from finding voice, she says a whole lot of other stuff too, but I’ve stopped listening because I’m doing battle with the stair monster and losing.

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