To be or not to be...doobe doobe dooo

It is impossible to remain sane for five years in this land of tiny women as an Indian woman who is not anorexic. Take it from me-I have seen it all. You can walk into a store even the most expensive, reputed, branded (and all such adjectives) one but the XL they carry would only fit your arms and not your waist. Total strangers can see a muffin your hand in the lift and start off pleasant conversation of how impossible it would be to “lose those pounds that these muffins give you”. It is generally accepted in this society to call a woman fat if she is a little more endowed than say the breadth and width of a mosquito bite. Of course, this has it perks. Like when one goes shopping in India or Europe and the salesgirls refuse to let one even touch the L size.

Unfortunately in today’s global village of a world, home is where the job is -I am doomed to live here. After careful deliberation for five years, I decided to lose weight in order to “fit in”. Since I have not been on a Sex and the City diet of blissful anorexia and because I simply can’t stand the lead actress in that series, and because V desperately needs his money to be spent, and because I have secret sadomasochistic fantasies, I signed up for a personal training program in a gym.
As expected, it is hell. Here is why:

1) My personal trainer, let’s call him GG, looks like a Greek god
2) GG has not an ounce of fat on his entire body
3) GG told me that my BMI and body fat (and what-ever-else that has ever been invented to make an overweight person feel miserable) are nothing but horrendous and almost hinted that he is very surprised I didn’t die a decade ago. This for paying him so much money that it hurts!
4) My muscles have not moved in three decades, what with me being teacher's pet and all in school - I could always get out of the "PT" class by smiling at our trainer and telling him about the latest quiz/essay writing/debate that I am attending and how important it is to sit in the library (that I would read totally unrelated fiction in the library is an aside only meant for trustworthy ears)
5) When my muscles refuse to move, GG shows me what his can actually do and that almost releases murderous/suicidal intentions in me depending on which time of the month that is.
6) I sprained my ankle on the first day when he made me stand on a- get this- wobbly ball, nothing less

If the training sessions are my practice for being in the place that is destined to be mine in the afterlife for all the innumerable sins I have committed in my life, the changing room is the antonym of seventh heaven. Loads of models and wannabe-models swarm the place and one should just see to believe the looks they give me and another Malay lady of decent proportions.

What keeps me going? I fantasize that if my sadomasochism does pay off, soon I will be on the other side of the death-by-skinny-model-looks-wall. If it doesn’t pay off, hell all these skinny people just don’t know how to enjoy life. I mean what’s life without chocolates, muffins, cheese, parathas and loads of carbohydrates? If this doesn’t work, I promise I will start a world-wide-counter-skinny movement. Watch out!