RTI (Right To Indulge)

"One-two-three Squat! one-two-three Lunge! one-two-three Stretch! The shouts from my trainer, inspite of my groans and protestations about unwilling muscles and advancing age. Gym-scarred, I return to Buckwheat, Quinoa, Matcha. They are not my children's names. They are what you will find on my kitchen shelf.

Does this sound like am living the happy life? All the pain I subject my body to, in the pursuit of happiness, which I believe I can achieve only if I'm healthy and young. You're right. Denying the simple pleasures of a sinful burger or pasta. Every fourth day that I cheat on buckwheat with burger is with fear. Praying my love handles don't catch me out. The next time I fork that pasta into my mouth is with trepidation, hoping my non-existent thigh gap does not choke further with asphyxiation.

My parents never walked on a treadmill a day in their life, yet they've remained slim. When my parents visit they ask if I would like to join them for an evening of roadside junk, I pause and think of the red dress. I decline with my head hung low and go to my cupboard to feel her sinuous fall. Then go the fridge and pull out a buckwheat and quinoa salad and a glass of matcha and settle down to watch Jane Fonda spread her leg out wide above her head.

Yes, the simple pleasures I could have indulged in and had a one-evening stand with junk. So why am I putting myself through this rigour? Is it because there's a deep, dark conspiracy between the nutritionists, buckwheat companies and the government. Maybe I need to file an RTI application.

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