Going to a gym frequented by the city’s beautiful people has its own perils, as I discovered when I signed up at a neighbourhood gym that has among its members people like John Abraham, Isha Koppikar, Anupama Varma and Rishi Kapoor.
For one, you may find yourself abandoned at one of those horribly tricky machines with weights to push and pull. That few of the young strapping instructors at my gym can resist the temptation of sidling up to a star attraction to give them a few tips can be a trifle unfair to lesser mortals trying hard to beat the flab. The consolation here is that even among the celebs, the odds are heavily in favour of the Pretty Young Things. An Isha Koppikar, I notice, always has more instructors trailing behind her than television actor Vikas Bhalla. And then there are the complete losers — the have-beens who will try any trick in the book to get noticed. An actor with a few forgettable flicks once stopped by to say hello and inform me of his glorious past.
As for us lesser mortals, each time one of those happy residents of famedom float in, all heads turn. When it’s a hottie of the female species, you can almost hear the collective intake of breath by the men sweating it out. The male population in the gym suddenly comes alive, straining every ligament and sinew to look their best. As for the women, those blessed with a generous adipose wrap are more curious while those with a figure that could put our Bollywood brigade to shame get in the uber-aggressive mode.
{{/usCountry}}As for us lesser mortals, each time one of those happy residents of famedom float in, all heads turn. When it’s a hottie of the female species, you can almost hear the collective intake of breath by the men sweating it out. The male population in the gym suddenly comes alive, straining every ligament and sinew to look their best. As for the women, those blessed with a generous adipose wrap are more curious while those with a figure that could put our Bollywood brigade to shame get in the uber-aggressive mode.
{{/usCountry}}When surrounded by drool-worthy dudes, those who can safely be tagged as pleasantly plump, turn coy. They are transformed quite often from domineering matriarchs into the shy reticent variety — the sorts who will tug at their T-shirts to cover generous backsides. The Martians, predictably enough, are different. They will stare, sometimes with their mouths open and give a sheepish grin if caught in the act. And if it’s a male celebrity, they will size him up from a distance. The more confident sorts will stroll up and admit to a grudging admiration. “Good going, buddy,” uttered in what could best be described as a grunt.
And then there’s me. I learnt a lesson the hard way — I almost sprained my neck. And the dishy Dino Morea was responsible. Obviously I was looking in his direction rather than following the instructions. I have, however, improved a great deal since then. Rather than fret and fume over the extra bit of lard that’s accumulated on my frame, or miss a step on the treadmill while gawking at starry presence, these days I get on with burning the calories. And as for not fainting when Mr Hot compliments you — well, I am still working on it.