Workout Pains!

One would imagine that going for a workout would be fun, relaxing, stress relieving and quiet. Well…. Think again!

I have been through the rut and cycle of much of the fitness offerings in Mumbai city. There was a time I was obsessed with trying out any fancy offering in sports and fitness and decide if I would go for more than 2 classes/sessions a week after a trial class. If there was an accompanying enthusiastic fool, then he/she would succumb and we wouldn’t waste time or energy in beating down the doors soon.

Dance, jazz, drums (yep don’t underestimate upper body workout), parkour, martial arts, karate, gyms, swimming, bboying, hiphop, crossfit, personalized training, dumbbell marathon workout, Capoeira, yoga, kalaripayattu and errrr… many more. On my to-do list are pole workout, Pilates and scuba diving in the pipeline. Despite 2 busted and surgically repaired knees, I have no intention of stopping or slowing down. P.S. This does not include occasional lazy ass bouts of nothingness. In my experience, doing nothing is a workout too :P

The good part of all the above was knowledge and experience. To know that there are folks who lived in absolutely poverty to mediocre standards just to fulfill their passion and keep it going. To impart it day after day in practice and training without expecting it to become popular at the speed of a bush fire. They put their comfort, their price, their personal time and even their family on the line to make things happen. Despite media exposure and workshops, a marginal percentage actual manage to make it to the big league – and by that I mean having at least 2 or more high profile clients and a periodic mention on social media. The rest remain to slug it in the mud and a majority to embrace defeat, shrug and move on. Their skills are narrated as after stories or introductory glory moments to give them an edge in an unknown crowd. The more exotic the art, the tougher to have it established and running.

What ropes me in is their passion. That passion is what convinces us learners to follow in their footsteps and dedicate few valuable hours from our day/week to the skill. This also accounts for the commute back and forth from the center – case in point when I worked myself to the bone doing Malad – Powai – Khar/Andheri – Malad almost 3/4 times a week. Over the last 10 years, I drove myself to the bone working out as much as 3 hours at a stretch at the gym, doing dance or yoga classes, swimming (when time, money, a clean balanced pool and mood permitted) and then followed a brief confused period in bboying followed by a long term stint at capoeira. All the art forms showed immediate and visible effects on my body and mind. Some very slight and some rather drastic. Gymming caused me to drop to a number that was underweight for my height and frame. But for someone like me who has battled weight since puberty, they were golden numbers in the 40s and I was only thrilled to drive it down rather than stay healthy and up. The result was atrocious skin for the 1^st time in my life, disrupted monthly cycle and deficiencies due to a not so well constructed diet.

Poor knowledge and even poor skills can cause severe long-term damage – something I have learnt personally. Capoeira unearthed a part of me that lay dormant for far too long. The art form just married my body movements and it was possible due to all my activities, I had the wavelength and flexibility to pull of moves that takes months for some new folks into this art form. I was home. And I made it home. Weather, space constraints, distance, time, energy, fuel, nourishment, balance… nothing mattered. I hated and loved people around me fiercely. But I was clear… I was glued to the class and the instructions than people and superficial offerings. I didn’t care if I missed a party or if I was early to leave from a party. No one lived my side anyways and some were more than eager to drop me home, repeatedly. Don’t think I have ever declined those many offers over and over again. But I hyperventilated if I either missed a class or someone occupied my comfy lil spot on the left extreme corner (1^st row) in class. I HATED that. They were minor possessive elements in my mind. I ignored it by watching year after year, month after month all kinds of folks come in. The class was no different from the gym. 

There were the wanderers and socializers among the scattered hardcore trainers.

People in Mumbai have learned to be comfortable in the tiniest spot. By that I mean, you can take a 360° turn but not really stick your arm out. The concept of giving space in life, in person, in class, in gym, in public spaces does not exist. And people carry this attitude with them everywhere they go and every discipline they infiltrate. In gym, you could hurt yourself from machines or anyone with weights etc. In Capoeira class you could easily have an arm or worse still, a leg, land on any part of you and most certainly add a few painfully sore days if not worse to your body. Safety couldn’t be further pressed and stressed about in class and yet not everyone pays heed or is mindful of it. It’s just flaying arms and legs for some who just wouldn’t care about the consequences or others around them.

Fast forward to when I joined Mickey Mehta’s 360° routine. So Capoeira had physically and emotionally damaged me in some irreparable ways. I realized that I would need a lot of time before I sensed that freeing feeling when I 1^st started practicing and training in it and that no one in class, not even in jest, would try to hurt me. So in the meantime, a suddenly ballooned weight (per my standards) prompted me to consider something tamer to be added to my routine. Mum enrolled me into MM360. It worked for her and she thought it would at least help me. Boy it did…. Calisthenics, cardio, boot camp, yoga (extreme and asanas), dance, stretch class, grow tall, aerobics, drills, well they had it all packed into 1 hr sessions 7 days a week all year long. One could pick and choose any one class per day and walk out content. Who doesn’t like variety served on a platter and the freedom to do ANYTHING from a slot reserved between 6am and 9pm. I used it and abused it. I was addicted. But I was careful and I trained sensibly. It worked wonders for me and the trainers who are so well taught and inducted into the system became my go-to folks. Early mornings and early-late evenings were packed like a Mumbai local. The odd “housewife” slot so to speak (that’s the term for 11am to 6pm) was scanty to empty sometimes. There were days I was the ONLY student and class was conducted with no discounts or trimmings from the actual routine. I loved it and I used my work-from-home privilege to slip in a class anytime. Sometimes even during a lunch break. But them ladies got on my nerves when they joined class. There is always the collective echo of wailing and yawning and laziness. I still cannot comprehend why would you attend a class if the only aim was to mark attendance. This wasn’t school or the army where it was traced and a consequence was announced. The only consequence was weight gain and not being fit. Them ladies would come and collectively slow me down by blocking my way with their group chatter or slow the class down by prompting the instructor to either reduce the number of repetitions or change the movement to an easy “doable” one. To add to the bane of my problems was the air conditioning. In a tiny studio space, 3 split ACs and 2 high speed noisy fans HAD to be on. The common sense that we warm up our bodies to work out and not cool it down with these tertiary gadgets didn’t prevail. I scouted areas of the class, however farther away or awkwardly placed just to avoid the direct blast of these gadgets. When the class would be packed, I would try to be patient and accommodate folks around me. It came at a cost. They didn’t feel or think the same way. Selfishness bid itself a warm welcome right with my breathing radius.

I joined Dumbelled workout regime as a trial for a month. T’was 3ce a week 6am-7am. Rigorous marathon training and tailor made for runners and marathon enthusiasts. I did not fit in and yet I managed to drag my crucified knees through 4kms of running non-stop at 6am temperatures. Discipline, attire, routine and stress levels were uniform and high. Just what I needed to push me over the edge and get me to do what I loved but just couldn’t find the right tools to aid me. I always needed a trainer and someone who would drive me down the road. However, the idea of doing this just one more time made me grovel and I had no will to join a bunch I barely spoke to or connected with. I think connection is key in a group. It makes you wake up and look forward to joining them no matter how bad your day was. Workouts in any shape or form always relieve you. But this… I left after a trial month. No regrets.

This was just a handful of issues I faced working out. At Goregaon Sports Club, home to the whos who of the rich and classless, I was hit on by men 3-4 times my age, causing my friend the member abundant embarrassment and refusal to bring me back again lest they pester him for my number and details. I once left a gym because the instructor insisted he wanted to marry me after training me for 2 years. Once refused to join a gym because the eager instructor looked like he would propose marriage after 2 years of training. Swimming was another story. If you find yourself in a slot that includes anyone, you are in for smelly dirty kids not minded by their parents or dirty old men who inch their whale like bodies close to yours and try to brush past or even slip in a creepy ‘hi’ in the middle of your laps. Excess chlorine and sometimes questionable hygiene drive you away faster than Juhu beach water could.

Working out is a headache and a boon. 3 scenic gardens around my home keep me grounded. Yes, I have to pass couples making bad attempts to hide in bushes to do what they do in bushes. Some quite out there and almost making babies. But if I strain my neck and eyes enough, I can pack in a good run followed by a few workout moves. The oxygen is a good trade off.

Clothing. Wait… APPROPRIATE clothing. Such a debate. Women ‘dress up’ here for workouts. I have seen pushup bras and heavy makeup beneath the perspiration. Tight clothing and see through it all clothing. And never a proper fit or a comfort. Adjusting and flaunting workout wear is THE workout. Its awkward and just a tch tch moment for spectators. Why or why would one want to be discomforted in the outfit that’s supposed to be the MOST comfortable. I once wore Quecha brand sportswear to a gym where I was told off by the gym instructor to cover up. I was shocked that racer-back was inappropriate in the near 40° heat but a camel toe and a tight T-shirt donned by someone else was acceptable. Bias! Both men and women also tend to conveniently ignore what to wear underneath the attire. Sometimes it’s way too embarrassing to acknowledge or even pass by in the same room. I shall not delve into the inappropriate details of what disasters those result in.  

In the end if not a workout, at least our wits, common sense, visual sense and our humor has a good workout and we make up for the rest elsewhere. I will never run out of feeling that initial pulse of getting my bikini bod and then leaving whatever space thinking “what the hell was THAT”. But if I never do any of these, I wont have any more experiences or make attempts to stay fit. Gotta 'ruuuuun' 

Gone in 60…something! (The Fit post)

This is my burn post. Where I am burning all the bad and negative stuff. Ok FAT. That’s what I am burning. Sigh. A few weeks back, I was in Gokarna donning my 1^st ever bikini which I bought (btw) in Goa with the help of a friend 2-freaking-years ago. It hit me then. What exactly had held me back from donning it beyond my room and almost packing it for all trips? It never left the bag nor did it see decent sunlight. Moreover, when in Gokarna, despite being with Abeer, I was painfully shy to be tramping around in it so I camouflaged it.

To be fair I’m the kinda person who won’t dress inappropriately or in a way that suggests that I stuffed a whole turkey in a pig intestine. That was a gross but pretty accurate point. After some unfashionable disasters during my very confusing and ill-informed teenage years, I took dressing up pretty seriously. I don’t follow the latest fashion and neither am I a clothes horse. But I will wear what I fancy and ensure that I am not the subject of ‘hawww’ when I make an entry. I have been thus far successful. But my struggle with weight is the only thing that stands between my passion for dressing up and shutting myself in a loft above my bathroom heater. I am blessed with a man who adores my curves and never holds back from letting me know that. Perhaps that’s what also prompted me to take matters into my hands. See there is only so much you can praise your better half and then NOT look at someone else. So I don’t expect my partner to have ‘eyes only for me’ if I go from Monica Belluci to the pool lady in Good Luck Chuck. I felt physically ill, grumpy, not so attractive and pitiful living off previous compliments. Sure enough, I got curvier and thankfully didn’t look distasteful. But if I’d continued down this path, I sure as hell wouldn’t have liked myself. It was 6+ months since my surgery and it was high time, I did more than just walks and a few stretches. This was gonna need some real muscle.

So 1 fine evening, after another quip from Abeer of how I made him fat (indirectly), I took him to dinner and declared this was my last real indulgence – the Philadelphia cheesecake. For at least a while. He didn’t believe me. The next day I embarked on the famous GM Diet. I love this diet. It was about plato breaking, nourishment and no starvation. I am not a dietician but this diet made sense to me and was easiest to follow. I was also to combine it with some hardcore workout. And so I began. I gotta tell you it was tough. 1 day all fruits. 1 day all veges. Etc etc. it did get to me. Yes, I loved the wholesome crunchy fruits and veges that I gorged on. But being mentally aware that THAT was all I could have is the trick I had to dodge. So I cheated a lil. I added nuts and kokum sherbet to my day. I worked my ass off to lose the retained water and the comfortably nestled adipose tissues. It was time to get leaner and meaner. I thought of myself and Abeer. I thought of the times I was unfit and unhealthy and the times I envied a fit girl or a dress I dared not even try. To give my psyche more to agonize and squeeze in some motivation, I tried on my birthday dress and my Christmas dress. Both are body fitted pencil straight. You cannot cheat your shape in them. That’s all I needed. 1 fit me and made me look bad and 1 zipped up after 10mins of intense breath holding. The motivation was Abeer loved me in those dresses and there was a time not too long ago that I had fit in them. So it wasn’t impossible.

I cut carbs to the max but I recalled from the past how the skin and hair take the worst hit when you cut all cholesterol and fat. Wanted to look healthy and fit; not skinny, emaciated and ill. Wanted to retain the curves and look like a woman not a pencil. About the same time, Abeer rejoined the gym and hit it hard like no one’s business. After many weeks of trying to find a common workout ground we both realized, he was the lone training gym guy and I was the outdoorsy and group workout girl. We both loved fitness. That’s all we needed and we motivated each other. We share our workouts and how we feel post that. That way our meals are also aligned to not let the workout go waste – ok that is still WIP. Abeer was kind enough to align his Tues-Thurs workout with my capoeira classes which I restarted. It took much convincing and coaxing that I would not let myself burnout or get injured and I wouldn’t let capoeira overshadow our quality time together. It’s just a start but we’ll get there. Seeing him workout to better himself only made me push harder.

Couple of things I re-realized in the last 1 month. I was constantly checking the scales contrary to my own beliefs where inches trump kilos. That’s cuz my workout adds a lot of muscle weight so looking at the scale defeats my purpose. At the same time, for a woman that time of the month is a huuuggee variation. Water retention, more inches, hunger pangs and wavering stamina. All of these vanish on day 2 or 3. I feel like I drop a ton. Again weighing or measuring myself in these times was another waste – mental note. The body also shows nutritional deficiencies sometimes through cravings. So 1 must be aware of at least basic health science to know why 1s body acts a certain way. That was what I started paying attention to. Took advantage of the fact that I worked from home.

The result till now is that I’ve dropped a few inches. I feel lighter and fresher. Sleep, which usually evades me, was a natural outcome of the exhaustion. And mind you – sleeping burns fat. Just getting started was the deal. The rest was a natural course and there is no stopping from here on forward. I do workout for myself but the majority of my motivation comes from Abeer. He wanting to be fit pushes me and makes me wanna be a better person for him as well. Earlier I got carried away and pushed my body 10x beyond its capacity – a mistake I won’t repeat. No point in going ‘off season’ and then doing damage control. No conforming to other body shapes, types or health. They aren’t me and I am not them. I have also learnt to recognize the good pain/soreness vs the bad one. The one that makes you sick and you can barely walk. Not worth it. Everyone who asks me about anything related to fitness; I tell them 2 things: 1) I am no expert 2) Find your OWN workout. Not what others think you should do. I need to enjoy my activities so I can do them honestly and for longer. Else it feels worse than labor and wont give me my results.

Right now I’ve restarted after busting 2 knees and nearly damaging a lot of body parts. It took so much for me to calm down and find a wholesome, healthier approach to working out. This time around I am not waiting for my perfect body. I am just gonna get there and work at keeping it…. :D

I’m in shape. ROUND is a shape! (A fat post)

Said the glorious (read Gloria) Queen Latifa in an interview to someone few years ago (I swear I Googled it but couldn’t find it). I don’t quite care for the quote as much as I do about Ms. Latifah or her character Gloria from Madagascar series of movies. Both depicting round, glorious, wholesome girls with a kick ass sense of humor.

All of my friends who are on the curvy side incidentally also carry the better part of the humor bandwagon. Probably cuz the thin 1s have no ‘juice’ left in them (that’s me being mean). I’ve been on both sides of the latitude and longitude of the 1 battle we are constantly fighting since puberty – weight. At least the vast majority of us. There is not 1 person I’ve met who hasn’t made a quip or some sorry excuse about control, diet, workout etc. None of it coming from the will to do so but rather the need for it.

I was a scrawny thin kid. Growing up I gradually become a plumpy gal. 1 push and sure enough I would bruise you. Kids are mean. They are always mean and aren’t equipped to handle sensitivity issues or factors. A random few (if you’re lucky) grace that list. I was the kind and sensitive 1. But I was also the angry 1 if someone so much as teased me or any of my circle of friends. Infant crawling-punching years were spent with rowdy boys in a co-ed. All of us were spoilt lil brats and we knew the language of the fist before we knew the ABCs. Mum dad and the teachers would never whimper in my direction cuz I was the ace student who got ace grades. I was special *blush blush*. What annoyed other kids was that I didn’t study or put in the effort either. It was ‘au naturale’ to me. And after having probably had a muddy tussle with me in the playground graced with a few unsavory exchanges, they were dragged up to my doorstep by their mommies to apologize to me and either borrow my HW or get tutored by me.

Once in boarding school, I continued being the same. Except this time we were all GIRLS. My bonding vs exceptional despise for having gal-pals came from boarding school. Too much budding estrogen under 1 roof is a formula for bloodshed, tears and disaster. It was simply our matron (long past the cramps and pads) and the convent-ish rules that kept us unscathed and alive. There were beauty experiments, weight issues (dear lord to the roof), comments (read taunts), fairness ads bombarding us, magazines of the then waif-thin super models, misconceptions from misguided thoughts plagued by confinement in a fortress-like setup followed by impressionable and excessive bombardment of media and the days of MTV grind and newly launched FTv. It was in those formidable years that I was made aware of my plumpiness. 1 will be surprised how much can happen under a boarding school roof and the people it shapes us to become. I was supremely active (hyper). I played competitive basketball for the team, I swam, I dabbled in hockey and finally even joined karate. I did it all and I could do them back-to-back without burning out. Much of it was genuine interest. A small yet significant portion of it came from the meanness I had to deal with from the very gals I lived with day in and day out.

Restricted diet became secret dieting, which is worse when the prefects and matrons check to see every morsel has been wiped from your plate. Uniform pockets were suddenly impossible to launder due to all food groups being hidden in them and then discarded to the garden dogs. Clothes became tighter cutting blood supply but giving the illusion that they fit vs they actually fitting us. Black was an all season color – the slimming color. Most of us looked goth and lost. We drank ridiculous concoctions and devised our own theories and recipes for eternal beauty – boy were we convinced or what. I recall a time when we had returned from a vacation break and sure enough had new clothes and shoes. We decided to set up our own fashion ramp and ‘model’ them clothes. What started out as a weekend time-killer turned into a massive routine production. We borrowed and got ready and fussed over ourselves and each other. Since makeup was a no-no; we used rough towels to rub our cheeks till they turned rouge pink. The end result was a few of us landed up with abrasion burns, which the matron caught and aptly punished us for. Boy did we have a laugh over it.

In all of this and through college, fat-jokes were a routine with me. I was never fat; just plump. I despised shopping and even worse, being photographed. Hence, I wondered what it must be like for the really obese and fat 1s. I am of the theory that much of it is self-brought on while a few genuine cases are genetic or health related history. Sadly, friends and foes aren’t built to think so. If you had money and/or were popular, you were left unscathed. Else, you had to develop a hyde of good humor and sportiness to succumb to all that was thrown at you. I never flinched except 1ce when a boy made especially mean comments about dating me despite my appearance. I still don’t know why THAT particular comment got me but it did – it didn’t dawn on me that the boy himself wasn’t a vision of fitness. What followed was a very dangerous and obsessive need to lose the pounds. I ignored the fact that even though I did yoga, gym, dance and sports, it was my thyroid that held me back. I was convinced that adding few hours to ALL the activities and really altering my diet was the key. It worked. I dropped a whopping 16+ kilos. The bonus was bad skin for the 1^st time in my life, some serious deficiency issues which I refused to acknowledge and going underweight – which btw I celebrated. I was perennially disturbed if asked to eat something or miss a workout – it was not part of my mental plan. My body and health were taking a beating for a lousy comment that had triggered a spark in my head and, at the time, my heart. 

Now with age and maturity and an art form that celebrates curves, strength, agility and a lot more about just being fit than a prototype image, I find myself so much more comfortable. Of course, the evolution involved behaving like a girl and investing the time and fusses to be like 1 too. This I say thanks to self-confidence and a lil indulgence of praises and flattery. Boys will be boys. But they sure know how to make a woman feel more like so. If I look around I see factory manufactured products. All that is missing is a barcode (which I think tattoos make up for). The boys and girls talk the same, have the same lazy walk, identical looks and have the same IQ. Boys look like Johnny Bravo and clean shaven less than equal to their female counterparts. The girls are essentially toothpicks or some blessed with the antique curves of a lamppost. Same long hair flicked, burned and straightened by salons they shouldn’t be heading to at their age. Pre-pubescent know how to put makeup long before I learned what an eye-liner was. Their exposure and attitude baffles me. I was thrown at a website which offers fat reduction packages to age as young as *drumroll* 12yrs. And more so recently by the ‘kids’ fashion senses at a concert. Sure it was fun and helped Abeer and me kill time, but it left me perplexed that the only way to look good was to have bare minimum covering your body.

I’m glad that at no point I felt the need or insecurity to take extreme (dangerous) measures. There are far too many vulnerable minds and bodies being tortured. I need a healthy point of view rather than a stressed point of view. There is nothing worse than embracing a bag of bones when you need to hold on to someone you love. And yes…. I love love love my food too… There I said it. Hence, round it is for me… *Busy workin it!*