What Possessed Me: June 2008

Ever since signing up for Fat Camp – I mean Boot Camp – I’ve been basking in a self-congratulatory glow brought on by a keen sense of moral superiority.

You are so hardcore, I say to myself. And then, just to be safe, I qualify this statement slightly. You are more hardcore than the next person.

This mantra is then followed by a great deal of internal fist pumping and visualizations of my hardcoreness (jumping over taxis, throwing medicine balls over my head, bench pressing fashionistas, etc.)

Occasionally, a small, feeble voice of dissent pipes in.

"When was the last time you went to the gym?" says the taunting voice of Feeble.

Hardcore is a state of mind. It’s about mental toughness. It’s not about how many push-ups you can do.

"So how many can you do?"

Erm…

"That’s what I thought. And how many crunches can you do?"

Not sure. Never tried one. But I feel sure that I have a strong core under there somewhere.

"You do realize that you have not been to the gym in a year. Boot Camp is in less than a month - what makes you think you are hardcore enough to go?"

Because I signed up?

"Right. And what happens when you get to Boot Camp after sitting on your ass for a year?"

Um…I get picked for the B Team?

"Yes. And how will that make you feel?"

Like the fat kid in sixth grade gym?

"Exactly. Now get your ass moving."

Now fully convinced that thinking about being hardcore is not the same as actually being hardcore, I agree to a lunchtime gym excursion with my friend LL. When we arrive at the gym, I am feeling pumped. Lunchtime gym session, I note to myself. You are so hardcore.

Twenty-five minutes of cardio and ten minutes of weights later, I hit the showers. Just like the pros. I am a person who does work and goes to the gym during the day, I say to myself with smug satisfaction.

When I return to my desk, my face is a deep eggplant hue. I am sweating profusely. Rigorous exercise of the hardcore variety is going to make you flushed and sweaty, I reassure myself. Tiny spots swim across my line of vision.

It’s funny how my computer screen is floating, I think. And that’s a strange sensation in my stomach…

I see PM, my fellow Boot Camp rookie. "Why are you purple?" he asks. I barrel past him just in time to empty the contents of my stomach in the only single-occupancy bathroom at work. Lying on the bathroom floor, bathed in a cold sweat, lips blue, face varying shades of maroon, and stomach churning, I think:

I am going to die on the floor of a communal bathroom at work.

Somehow, the gross indignity of this scenario appeals to me, even cheers me. I imagine my co-workers clucking over my sweaty blue corpse draped artfully across the toilet bowl. My reverie is interrupted by a horrifying thought: The dead can’t suck in their guts. This – and only this – shores up my will to live.

“Perhaps you overdid it a bit,” says LL, while applying a cool compress to my head.

“Perhaps,” I croak.

This does not bode well for Fat Camp.

Ladies, pre-training is in session.

Nineteenth century images of female bodybuilders from here with thanks.

I may have mentioned that I have a little thing for miniature paintings. It started in Turkey and went slightly haywire in India. I've got the mini bug - big time.

Then I saw something in Elle Decor many moons ago that caught my eye. Miniature...but different.

Riyaz Design is collaboration between English artist, Alexander Gorlizki and master miniature painter, Riyaz Uddin. They live and work in Jaipur, Rajasthan, where Alexander creates the composition and Riyaz executes the design using single hair brushes and hand-ground pigments. The result is a playful and celebratory subversion of a 400 year-old tradition:

Riyaz Design also offers stationary, package design, and “enchanted portraits” like this one:

What’s better than Sly Stallone in chintz? NOTHING, I tell you. Nothing.