Look Ma, Am Jogging!

Finally after 27 years of existence and denying that I need it, I was forced to start jogging.

People define jogging as the art of slow running, on a track, in the community park where members of the opposite gender are in abundance, done supposedly to stay fit, in reality, to ogle at all the eye candy around, hoping to strike a conversation and ending the jog with your latest "friend" at the juice shop. I have seen umpteen conversations starting with words as obtuse as, "hey your shoelaces are open" and as daring as "nice shorts".

Jogging is also the sport that was made famous by Forrest (of the Forrest Gump fame). Everyone remembers that "Run Forrest Run" incident. I am not as blessed or as talented as Forrest is but I do share some similarities. The love for Vanilla ice-cream. He was forced to. I do it by myself. Anyways, I dont know what I was thinking when I got into this argument about fitness with Neo. And since he is quick on his feet, he challenged me if I could lose 4 inches by his wedding. I, being myself, had to accept it without any thought.

So, one fine day, I was blissfully hogging onto french fries and sipping onto a diet coke at a McDonalds when I suddenly realized I couldn't breathe. I am 27. Been the sporty kinds. Have actually won medals in races and all that. I somehow fatafat stuffed all the remaining fries in my mouth and gulped the rest of the coke in one quick motion. And then I called for help. The call was more of a tribal dance and war-cries. And unlike the movies, no heroines were in sight. Not even the cleaner came forward. I somehow managed to stay alive. I eventually had to sit at a coffee shop and wash down all the food with a vanilla ice cream before I could start breathing normally again. And that was the day when I decided that I need to get fit. And win the bet. Wait, after I finish that ice-cream.

I started exploring options. I collected pamphlets, phone numbers and reviews for dance schools, swimming pools, tennis/badminton courts, gyms, yoga instructors, even Shilpa Shetty's DVDs, cricket clubs and organic juice shops. And then I started the process of elimination.

Dance classes - too far and too expensive. And average age of a participant was 13. Imagine being called an uncle at 27. Last time I danced, I was in college and I was thrown out in exactly seven minutes of warm-up sessions.

Swimming pools refuse to accept me as a member. I dont know why.

All tennis and badminton courts are shut because they are preparing for commonwealth games to happen. I mean why are they shut? Cant they come up with better excuses?

Local gyms are interesting but its difficult to be semi-naked around fat aunties who are more interested in checking out themselves in mirror than working out. When they are not checking out themselves, they are comparing their vital stats with other fat aunties and are looking for affirmation. And worse is that they insist that they are the only ones who have the rightful ownership of the treadmill, stepper and the bicycle. Dare you touch em.

Yoga is another interesting story. I dont mean to offend anyone but the instructor was getting too "touchy" for my comfort. I know who I am and my preferences are straight. As a rod.

The DVDs are interesting but I couldn't bring myself to spend that kind of money on watching a no good page 3" celebrity" do awkward poses in red tights. And imagine the horror of my parents if they see me seeing that DVD. Jayadaad sey bedakhal kar dete mere gharwale.

Of all the options, am left with Yoga or Jogging. Yoga is fun and all that but it requires you to get up at 4:30 (in the morning) and reach the place by 5. Do it for an hour with people who are on an average double my age. Am thinking, wont it be fun to get yoga guys and dance guys in one room and experience the generation gap live?

So I finally du out my running shoes and started jogging. Its been a week since I have started jogging. I havent noticed an iota of difference to my fitness/health/girth/stamina but I remain hopeful. Please keep me in your prayers. After all I have to win the bloody bet. Just over a month to go.

Written while munching onto an McAloo Tikki Burger at a McDonlads. And no, Ronald is not paying me for this post. It would be nice if he did.