Recently, it has come to my notice (I think every one except that blind dog in my alley has noticed) that I’ve put on some weight. And I’m not even going to pretend that I don’t know how it happened.
I know exactly how it happened: I stopped gymming entirely and ate any and all kinds of food. I may single-handedly contributed to Pringles’ profits last quarter. Also Coke. You’re both very welcome.
Had it not been for my jeans ripping and threatening to reveal more than what the world will ever be prepared for, I wouldn’t even have realized how much I’ve let myself go. After several store trials, I’m unhappy to report that I’ve ballooned from a size 8 to a 12. My family’s mock –threats-paraded-around-as-predictions of me turning into the stereotypical obese American are coming true.
And while reaching critical mass has been quite a joy ride (chocolate, chocolate cake, mint chocolate chip ice-cream, I'm looking at you), my high has helped me hit an all-time low.
So today, I take a pledge you bear witness to – I pledge to return back to my old size 8.
(On the plus side, I must admit shopping has never been easier. Unlike my 8-days, when anything I liked would be sold out as surely as Hangover 2 is a scene-for-scene copy of Hangover 1, it’s always available in a 12. Maybe I should just stay this way?
I can just feel my mother rolling her eyes at me).
The last line particularly amused me – “The DOT says its campaign "humorously highlights the essential dos and don’ts of safe, responsible biking."
Let’s backtrack here a bit. It’s all very well to call bikers jerks. But who’s holding up standards for the drivers, tell me?
I just recently started biking. I follow the rules: I drive in the direction of traffic, brake well before the crosswalk and don't ride on the sidewalk. And I share the road with drivers like horny teenagers share crabs.
But where did that get me? Quite close to dying, actually. My heart has had so many jolts on my ten-minute commute; it’s quite ready to give up (doesn’t even want to wait around for my family history of diabetes to kick in, the coward).
Since I’ve started riding, cars have definitely come way too close. They’ve honked at intersections when they were behind me and I wasn’t quick enough to pedal it out of there. Or worse, they have come close and honked right into my eardrums.
And bike lanes. What bike lanes?
In all my riding, which amounts to well over a month mind you, I have found one bike lane in this city. It’s next to the Home Depot and exists for a whole street at which point, the road reduces to two lanes again.
So I ask you, why should I not ride on the sidewalk for my safety? Why should I not put myself first and go against the flow of traffic, from where I can see the assholes approaching me well in time? Shouldn't I try my very best not to hit other people/cars/drivers and at the same time, not go deaf?
(Side note: While my body has failed me since childhood at all hand-eye coordination so crucial to sports, it's shown an unnatural talent for pedaling furiously while shitting in my pants and dropping F-bombs- simultaneously!)
And while New Yawkers are busy heckling bikers, the League of American Bicyclists came up with the brilliant idea of celebrating Bike Month. It caught on like wild fire!
Um, what?
Don't tell me to ride a bike unless you're buying me insurance! Asking people to bike when most of America seems pretty intent on mowing bikers down seems pretty diabolic to me, even though I am not sure what the motive is.
(Perhaps it is wiping out humanity altogether? I imagine someone is sitting in an office somewhere, being very Amrish Puri-like and laughing at his ingenious scheme: More bikers makes drivers mad. Drivers kill bikers. Drivers go to jail; hung for murder. No more people to drive cars. Or bikes. Rapture. Muahahahaha).
Point is, there is a dire need for driver education as much as biker education. And beyond the perfunctory so they can pass a test to get their license. If we are going to be all treacle-y about the wonders of biking and giving it a whole month, we need to proactively talk to drivers about how they ought to be behaving on the road and respecting fellow bikers.
To put it in very egocentric terms that drivers are bound to understand, help make it easier for bikers to not bother them.
Edit: I realized I hadn't mentioned the third thing that pissed me off. I wanted comfort food after all this bike nonsense and they were out of Pineapple Upside Down Cake. Ridiculous!
“He’ll come”, she thought as she sat down under the marula tree, resting her head on its strong trunk.
The sun’s yellow rays pierced through the branches of the marula, the heat stinging her body. She shifted a little so the sun wasn’t in her eyes. The agamas were out; their soft scratching noises on the bark of the marula created a hypnotic, buzzing harmony.
“Oh how the sun wears one out,” she mused as her head drooped in a sleepy daze.
She woke up. The sky was drenched in the orange blood of the setting sun. Above her, the marula fruit hung deliciously, its intoxicating scent wafting through the air. The heat lingered on without the slightest breeze to usher it away. She felt cool and damp, her skin soaked thanks to the blazing sun all-day. Her mouth was dry and her tongue felt like sandpaper as it clung desperately to the roof of her mouth.
It wouldn’t be too long now.
She opened her eyes with a start. Dusk was cloaking the savanna. The last of the sunbeams danced from branch to branch, trying to escape their inevitable fate. A crisp breeze floated in bringing a welcome chill with it. Out in the distance, hunters were stretching out of their slumber; the hunted were retreating into the safety of their warm huddles and the scavengers circled the air, spectators to the bloodbath of the night.
A few vultures hung nearby – an animal was about to breathe its last somewhere close. She felt sorry for the waning creature, as it lay there alone, waiting for Death to come and claim it. No loved ones, no farewells, just the bottom feeders waiting; watching with cold eyes. And a cold heart.
She wept quietly under the marula for the lonely innocent, the tears streaking her face. Darkness closed in.
The next morning, newspapers lamented the rise of poaching in the area, when yet another elephant, was found stabbed to death, her long tusks pulled out from her face.
Forest rangers found her under a marula tree, her head resting against its strong trunk.
