"A bear, however hard he tries, grows tubby without exercise."
~ A.A. Milne ~
When people think about me, two words come to mind: godlike physique. My whole life people have stopped me on the street and said stuff like, "excuse me sir, do you need the name of a good veterinarian? Cause those pythons are sick." I jointly put exercise and clean living atop my to do list and I never miss the opportunity to keep my body at peak operational capacity.
Oh wait a minute, no I don't. My body is less like a temple and more a thatched lean-to, held up by shoelaces, leftover chewing gum and sheer willpower. The fact that I'm still breathing is nothing short of a miracle. So when I left the sinful excesses of Gotham a few months back, I figured it would be a perfect opportunity to reinvent myself with some of that aforementioned exercise and clean living. After all, the nightlife of Sri Lanka hardly rivals that of my East Village haunt.
As it turns out, my friends, you can't simply stop drinking whiskey and pray for the best. Everyone reassured me, "oh sure, it's boring there but you're going to lose so much weight! If you aren't going out and drinking you're going to get so skinny!" I was convinced that by avoiding Makers and rocks I would end up looking like a short, white D'Angelo.
In a way though, my wish came true. After a month of almost no booze and extremely controlled eating, I did indeed look like a short, white D'Angelo - so I figured I should introduce some actual working out into the mix. The roads around here are ridiculously unsafe to jog on, unless you like dodging out-of-control buses and being chased by stray dogs, of course. And much to my chagrin, there isn't a Gold's Gym anywhere nearby, so I turned to yoga. What could be easier? I got a yoga mat and a sweet yoga dvd. I was geared up for fitness.
I popped in the dvd and made it through about two poses, delivered at lightning-fast progression despite me selecting the beginner setting, and then something in my hamstring starting tingling. I leaned down to check on it and bumped into my bed, thus disturbing the delicate "sun salutation" balance I was already struggling to maintain, and I took a swan-position nosedive into my less than cushy yoga mat. I quit yoga that very instant. Quickly remembering my talents as a researcher, I spent the next few exercise-free days on the webosphere looking for good workouts to do in the comfort of my own room. At last, success - a quick 20 minute stretch-and-situps combo that I deigned worthy of my time.
Sure, it's super low impact, but it beats not doing anything. I might've been a little impatient in demanding that seven years of gluttonous over-indulgence be erased by four weeks of sobriety and curry, but after month two here I'm starting to feel a bit better off. Minus the brief freak-out I had when my coworker called me "fat" two days ago, I'm holding up pretty well. Since I've remained in strict compliance with my three-roti-per-day-diet, I am going to go ahead and assume it was just a language barrier issue there.