Breakfast is the time when I sponge up general knowledge about the world and mull over things. Like, all the flurry of weddings for example. That 75-foot veil – that’s the stretch from my home to K & C’s home – I must get something like that for frost protection for the outdoor strip of vegetation. Or, I end up wondering if Deepika’s Bangalore reception had chiroti in the buffet? Or, like it’s 2018 and Bollywood is still making movies titled “Loveyatri” – the reviewer had succinctly summed it up as “pain in the raas” because the hero is a garbha dance teacher. Or, that I’m no longer dark, but “melanin-rich” according to Times of India.
So, one morning when I was viciously stabbing the oatabix brick that wouldn’t disintegrate in the soya milk, I read a headline about how Mark Wahlberg wakes up at 2:30am every day. I thought aiyoo papa. See, that way insomnia is an equaliser; it does not care about bank balance. We have something in common, I told Wahlberg’s photo on the computer screen. I opened the link because I was curious to see if he also lies awake thinking of scenarios like a large meteor falling into the Atlantic and the ensuing displacement tsunami, or war (most likely), or a new plague-like disease (we are due), or…okay…he probably won’t lie awake thinking he forgot the laundry in the washing machine and he may have to run another rinse cycle so the clothes won’t smell.
Damn it, it turns out he does not have insomnia at all. The man wakes up at 2:30am because he goes to bed at 7:30pm. In my books, that’s worse than insomnia. Why is a grown man going to bed at 7:30pm? Every. Day. Ah. He wakes up at 2:30am because that’s when he exercises. Oookay. Maybe he goes back to sleep by 3:30 or so? No. The dude is properly up and about. Showering, praying (yes), breakfasting etc etc. And in between making movies and earning $$$.
This is where my life is going wrong, I tell The Husband who has a Mark-who? look on his face. I could be making £££, but no. Now that the sunrise time is 7:50am, I can barely string sentences properly even at 8am. And look at this dude. He would have probably finished 150 push-ups by 2:45am. But really, I couldn’t see myself staggering out of bed at 2:30am, the wind howling outside, and doing lunges and jumping jacks. And the only reason I’ve gone to bed at 7:30pm is jet lag after India trip.
Anyway, after having accidentally stepped on the weighing scale whilst removing cobwebs from the bookshelf, and after confirming the digital display on the scale was A-okay, and also my eyesight was A-okay, I finally enrolled us in a local gym for off-peak hours, which is after 9:30pm. Very Wahlbergish. By the time we return, the lights are off in the neighbourhood and the deer would’ve come out for the nocturnal foraging. On the days we don’t go to the gym, I go stomping around the neighbourhood mostly after dark (well I can’t help it because it gets dark by 4:30pm when every respectable country still has bright sunshine). I’m sure someone will call the cops on me, reporting suspicious movement.
We’ve even gone as far as eating salads as meals. Not like that spoonful of kosambari placed in the corner of your plate when having anna saaru palya. It’s a cruel dilemma – do you choose between making memories or counting calories? See on cold, grey afternoons it is criminal not to have piping hot kichdi or bisibelebath. But I’ve sat poking around pitted green olives and goats cheese and walnuts, cheering myself up thinking about all the magnesium and iron and proteins that are getting in, and that someday I’ll be like Okoye. Yes. It was a good thing I did not return that pair of jeggings I’d bought a while ago. Surely, I’ll fit into it before man colonises Mars.
The thing is we are closer to putting humans on Mars. And I’m probably on the brink of causing world-wide walnut shortage. Still, I can’t pull up those damn jeggings beyond my ankles. Now I’m thinking it’s probably meant for a four-year-old. Maybe the size label is wrong. Yes, that’s a more logical explanation.
Anyway, when K from next door said he wanted to join us in the gym, I thought, ah, perhaps like Wahlberg, we have inspired him. At least something good has come out of rolling olives around in the mouth, even though the eyes are filled with visions of kodubale. I believed in that lofty idea for all of ten seconds. By then I happened to observe The Husband hovering in the kitchen, in the throes of a great mind battle – whether to choose between dry fruits or spicy Bombay Mix. I actually heard his thought – fuck this shit – and he filled up a bowl of Bombay Mix and sauntered off.
So what’s K’s angle, really? He tells me he’s mainly going to join the gym to tone his abs. Ah. The year-end Caribbean cruise. K wants to impress the ladies with a surprise six-pack. But he’s also human after all. Last week when I asked him to join us for a gym session, he revealed cruelly that he was feasting on biryani.
Anyway, I can’t be so selfish thinking only about my health all the time. As a responsible citizen I should support local businesses. So, it’s going to be pizza for dinner. With some garlic bread. And wedges. And Narcos on Netflix.
And suddenly, I feel richer than Wahlberg.
© Sumana Khan - 2018