On hotel rooms and airplanes and other things...

If you've experienced true pain, it seems you can appreciate the beauty in everything. I'm not saying that, I read that line somewhere and it made no sense to me. For the only true pain is a kick to the nuts.
Here's another finding on pain. If a person, who's attention you long for the most, ignores you..... the brain reacts in the same way as it would if you physically hurt yourself. You'd actually feel hurt it seems, if the cute lady stays indifferent. It's on reading this particular finding that I realised why I feel so hurt all the time. Nah, bollocks!

As part of my job, I fortunately travel around a lot, and get to stay in a lot of good places all around the country. Instead of feeling things like pain and sorrow when I'm out, I notice things. Things like the bathrooms in my hotel room. Things like the fact that in every hotel bathroom, I mean in EVERY HOTEL BATHROOM, there's one shower jell, and there's one shampoo. And they are coloured according to whatever fruit extracts it is that the puny boxes claim to contain. Each time, one of them (the shower jell, say) is a concoction of peaches/oranges/grapes/bananas or whatever, and the shampoo too has some fruit in it, but it's always a fruit. Never a vegetable. No bitter gourd, no spinach, none of that healthy stuff. It'll be some apricot or litchi or some exotic fruit that mom never buys. Who buys green apples anyway?
I've seen this enough number of times that I know that this is the general state of affairs in the bathrooms of high-end hotel rooms. But I wonder why the hotel management wants to turn your body into fruit salad.

See the amount of thinking that's required to keep you from feeling hurt all the time?

Another observation here. If you're reading this, you've perhaps sat in an airplane more times than you've calculated 33x33 (1089, genius!) in your lifetime. Unless you specialise in calculating 33x33 of course, then in that case, you're not counted.
But when a plane lands, why is there so much of a 'click' 'click' clack' 'clack'; every bugger on board trying to free themselves from the clutches of the seat belt? Mind you, the flight's just touched down, it's still not halted completely, so the doors too aren't open (unless some air hostess got really creative). Basically, you're readying yourself to stand in a queue for the next 3 days before the door opens, for what? Deplaning 3 seconds before the chap who was sitting till the crowd cleared?

Talking of airplanes, my dad once told me a story long ago, about how inside airplanes, beautiful creatures called air hostesses exist. He told me this when I showed my apprehensions about getting into a sealed chamber that apparently flew like a bird. But after hearing about the beautiful creatures inside (I couldn't pronounce 'air-hostess' then), I changed my mind like a good boy. Now I know for a fact that the 'beautiful creature' story is a myth. I can only see creatures with four tonnes and three tones of make-up. In essence, we could carry a lot more luggage if the airy hostesses left their mascara at home. Just kidding. Poor souls, they need to deal with famished idiots like yours truly, when we demand for food and drink. How did things go so bad for them, I wonder. About the beautiful creatures, I still am hopeful to travel on Virgin Atlantic some day. Pappa, I know you don't lie.

And now, for the heart-wrecking part. Fruits, fruity shampoos, hotels, planes, air-hostesses, no air-hostesses, I couldn't bother with any of it. For all I care, give me a cot under a star-studded sky, and I bet that a chap who's done his day's worth of work will sleep like a baby. But that sleep is something I surrendered on the day that I shook hands with her. It was on her birthday, exactly 355 days ago. We'd known each other, albeit not that well, for just over a month or so, and I'd fallen flat on my arse the instant that I saw her. An arm's reach away she is, but I couldn't be further from her. Shit! I can talk like Yoda (Oh yeah!), but that's no use when you're supposed to be bloody Luke.

See, it's at despondent times like these, when you travel long distances every day, partly just to see someone, that even a non-believer hopes for a miracle. You'll have surrendered to an insurmountable strength, that surprisingly lies somewhere within you, but is just bloody hard to find.
Mind you, if you're fortunate though, there'll be some being that comes to the rescue. In my case, there are two. This soul will tell you stuff that's as mystical as 'The Force', (I know it's getting too Star Wars-ish), and you wouldn't have the first thing called a clue about what they're on about. But I suppose you're supposed to soldier on, listen blindly and do, but not just do, but do instead. Or something along those lines. Off you go then! The force just awoke a few months ago. Didn't you see it or something?

Why the secret code, eh?

I've been looking around for a while, at things, at people, observing them in whatever little ways my faculties allow me to. And there seems to be repetitive pattern if you may. Our troubles, as though collective are largely the same. Most want to climb ladders, and somehow, they lament at their inability to do so. Ladders of all kinds, corporate, monetary, physical, mental, social, romantic, technological, familial, yada yada yada, 

In most cases, that's the situation of you, the reader, as is mine. 

Mom says ask the boss for for a promotion, dad talks about a pay-hike, investing, the wife wants to go to Hawaii, or some islands with blue waters and open skies, and not to forget, that new flat that she thinks you should buy. The kids want new clothes, an iPad each, more allowance, and a bunch of more gimmicks. You want the ultra-cute girl to like you back, the rest of the world to shout a little less, rev the motor all the way to the 7000rpm redline, and maybe, just maybe, keep those raging hormones a bit more on the leash. And each one of that, irrespective of who you are, what you do, rather what you don't, seems to be too much to ask. It's more troubling when you see someone who comes along, points a finger at something, takes what he/she wants, and walks away with a jump in their stride. At that time, you wonder, "How the fuck do you do that? I gotta learn that shit!". Strangely, many a times, all you need to do is walk up to whatever you want, take it and walk away with it. Or is it all the time?

There seems to be something elusive about how things work. Yes, true that most of what you do, may not work, no matter how many times you read Rhonda Byrne's "The Secret". I tried reading it myself, hoping that I'll be a changed man by the time I'm through with the book. I fell asleep on the third page. So that didn't work as planned. But like many of us, I find myself asking the question - How badly should you want something, to get it? Stupid question, I know. Most people will respond by throwing a brick at my head, saying "You don't wish for something, you idiot! You fucking work for it! Stop being a faggot and suck that dick!"

Then you see these blokes who endlessly give you advice on stuff.... "top 5 tricks to success", "top 365798 tips to achieve your goals", "best tips on living a happy life" and bollocks of that kind.  Mind you, some of them make millions selling their horseshit to desperate people. From personal experience, the only thing that's remotely close to getting you what you want is just one word. It's called "Doggedness". Persevere till the time even life thinks "Damn, this fellow's serious. Let min through." or something. Yeah, just a warning, I don't think that formula works in romantic pursuits. I've heard it works there too, but perhaps, for the times I've tried, I've let up on the gas a little too soon. 

That brings me to another question. When do you stop trying? Rather, when should you stop trying? Should you ever? Many tell that if you don't get a favorable response, chuck the person/thing and move on, as it's probably not be meant to be. But how do you know what's meant to be or not to be? Rejection, how many times before you thrown in the towel? 1? 2? 5? 7? 23? Yes, somewhere in my head, a voice says "Never". I honestly want to hear it and agree, but that will prompt me to make a few phone-calls that I know, won't help my situation one bit. 

But, but, but, but and a big, sexy butt, in the midst of this anxiety-riddled existence, I've come to realize something precious. It's that no matter how hard you get battered, irrespective of whatever you're denied, if there's a voice in your head, that inner conscious, that says "Don't worry, just soldier on", there isn't a thing in the world that can keep you down for long. You may not have the code, or password to the secret gate that keeps you from the land of dreams, but nothing's stopping you from changing your world into your dreamland. Yup, that's some inner voice. 

Don't look now

You know those times when you're shouting someone's name so loud, but only in your head, that you feel your ear-drums burst? And it's followed by that loud piercing sound of silence? It's stuff like that which, if you can endure, will help you soldier along when the going gets shitty. It probably doesn't even matter if the name you shouted was that of the one you've fallen madly for, or your sworn enemy.

Too serious a start? Well, here's something that we all go through. You know Sunday nights, eh? That time of the week where we either live the most, or resign our fates to the impending five trudging days. The Sunday evening is like a game of chess in the head. You plan your weekly moves in advance, look for gaps, careless leeway left your way, an early escape on Wednesday, the sure-shot party on Thursday, and if possible, you give Friday a miss altogether. How easy it would be if someone declared the upcoming week a holiday. Yuhoooo!!!!! I'd be happy if someone did that for you. However, I've signed up for shit that never asked me to sign on a dotted line. So Sunday night....

Bloody hell! I'll see her again tomorrow! Yay! Yay! Yay! Well, that line repeated about a thousand times and counting. The stupid mind only stops repeating that line if I get my hands on a set of car-keys. In that case, all the monkey-mind can think is "Floor the right foot! Floor the right foot! Floor the right foot! Floor the right foot! Floor the right foot!", so on and so forth. It's a bit of a recursion, life as of now. And then, Monday comes.

Just to give a description of what happens, it's all well and good till she walks in. Then....the world crumbles, blood-supply to vitals seize, all systems flat-line, and the body spirals onto a limbo for the next five hours. During the limbo, and even way after the limbo's over, all I can think of is this atrociously attractive human form. No! It's happening again! How do you stop ranting and raving about what you think, when there's only one thought being repeatedly rendered in the head?

She's an arm's reach away, and yet so far away from my touch, It's like looking at the floor of a filled swimming pool. You think you can touch the bottom by putting just dipping your hand in. However, there's a phenomenon called refraction that's laughing at you from somewhere.

"Oi! Mr. world! Conspire in my favor for this once, eh?" beats the heart. The mind on the other hand says, "No, No! You mustn't ask for help, but instead, power through your heart's weakness, for it's a stupid muscle that knows simple things like beating and beating alone. And I, the mighty brain, your true connection to the collective consciousness of all of humanity, am all you need to solve your issues. Not the puny heart."

If your mind ever said that, or anything similar to that, ever, I suggest you consult a psychiatrist, because the brain talking like that is most certainly a sign that you've got issues. As for me, I'me madly enamored by this gorgeous woman that I shouldn't be attracted to. Because she's supposed to be smart, AHHEMMM sexy, and boy, the way her hips move when she walks, it knocks the daylights out of me. Not because it is seductive or stuff (hell it is!), but more than that, it has the innocence of a kind that's hard to find. Not that the lady in question is innocent herself. She's got her quirks, strange ones, subtle ones, crazy ones, crazying ones, so on and so forth. But I wake up everyday and thank my fortunes for showing me this one piece of art that manages to get my blood pumping in the eerie cold of my immediate surroundings. Yes, there's a good chance that I might never get to hold her tight, every ounce of her. However, I still won't lose the many heart-throbbing afternoons, and the heart-wrenching evenings I've endured. Maybe they'll make me hardier some day in the future.  

The moves you make

I stumbled upon an article about how Formula 1 pretty much reinvented itself after the death of one of its most celebrated drivers, Ayrton Senna. The piece is over two years old, and as I later noticed, it was written by this young lady who I've come to admire deeply in the past few months or so. About the piece, what struck me most was how simply it was worded. No high-flying wordy nonsense, no complicated terminology that sends you running to the dictionary. It was simple, to the point, lucid, like an 18 year old is telling you a story about something that she's fervently passionate about. I was so moved by the simplicity of what I read, even inspired, dare I say, that I decided to write something simple myself.

No, it's not about Motor Sports, love. I hardly have any experience in that subject, save for the odd one-make races that I have witnessed on a race-track. I need to mention that those experiences too are something to the credit of this aforementioned young lady, for my life, thus far, has been far removed from lap-times, unless you're talking about 400-metre relays, of course.

But what I can write simply about is running, jumping, leaping, lifting, pulling, pushing and other monkeying-around moves that we are all capable of, They keep us in the shape and size that we are supposed to be in. However, off late, we are more concerned about the shape and size of the screens we carry around in our pocket. Sadly, the fact is that if you happen to read this, chances are that you will be doing so on one of those screens. But if you plan on sweating it out, be it for health reasons, or kicking your stress (or yourself) in the butt, here are a few moves that will give you guaranteed results, no conditions applied.
I have been accused of being a misogynist by a some nitwits. However, I love ladies, and it a point to tell them  how attractive they are. Yes, that's a mild digression, but what I want to say is this. In case there are any ladies(if at all) reading this, I plead you to try these moves instead of walking on a yawn-inducing treadmill. Don't worry, you won't develop body-builder-rivaling biceps and triceps, unless you're into stuff like that.

Here's the list
-Squats
-Pushups
-Skipping/Jogging
-Planks
-Pull-ups
-Dead lifts

Squats
It's the simplest move you can do that WILL get your heart pumping. You don't need your crush to walk by, you don't need to drive in the opposite lane with oncoming traffic. Hell, you don't even need to watch a horror movie. Simply sit your butt down, come back up. If you're a beginner, aim to do that 50 times. If you're a pro, go on till 500 if you like. But by the end of it, your thighs, lungs and heart will plead clemency. The best bit? You don't even need gym equipment for it!
Just as a side-note, don't let your knees go ahead of your foot when you're descending. Also, keep your torso as upright as possible through out the movement.

Push-ups
If you're a guy, this will probably be a test of your ego. How many can you do? If the number is under 20, get a sex-change or something. Do that, or do more push-ups! If you're a lady nevertheless, please do them, like please!
The move itself looks easy to do, isn't it? It is in fact quite a test of a person's upper body strength, and like the squat, it needs nothing but your own bodyweight. Also, there's a whole variety of them that you can do, depending on your level of strength and fitness levels. And if you have competition, there are few things that will give you a kick out of doing them.

Skipping/Jogging
I'll elaborate on skipping first, as it requires the rope and little else other than your concentration. And also, skipping first as it gets the job done quicker and even gives your upper body a good sweat-session. Most of us have done this as kids, especially if you're girls - two of you moving the rope and the third one monkeying up and down in the middle, and you took turns at doing it and what not. For guys, it has always about who can do the most by themselves, and then some. It was fun, right? And then we grew up and grumpy and things. So out went the fun. Now, all we skip is meals. Get hold of that rope, get into your room , move your bed and table to the furthermost corners and SKIP! SKIP! SKIP! SKIP!
 Because jogging needs space and shoes, a dry weather and a bright day etc etc.
Side-note again: Try skipping with a little bend in your knees, and preferably on a soft surface, or maybe with your running shoes(yeah, that's a bit contradictory to the jogging bit.), just to keep the knees safe from the constant impact.

Planks
Another one of the body-only movements that requires ABSOLUTELY no equipment, clothes(hee hee hawww hawww hawww!!!) or even movement for that matter. Here's all you need to do.

Yeah, that's it. 

Looks super-easy, eh? Hold it for a minute (most people struggle), and your abdominals (a.k.a abs) will squeal. There are too many benefits of doing planks, so check them for yourself if you're curious.

Pull-ups
Yeah, this is the scary one for many a men, let alone ladies. Why are we so intimidated by this one? No clue. Happily, most of us start out with a single pull-up. That's all most starters can muster. But stay at it, and there isn't exactly a limit, until about 30 or something. Just kidding. There's never been a limit to anything, has there?
Arnold Schwarzenegger's book on body-building says that even if you can do just one pull-up, do it, but do a total of 20 in the whole day. Your strength will build up eventually. If you can't do one pull-up.... well, there's a trick.
Jump to the top-position-

The position on the left

How do you get to that position? Use a chair or your brains or something. So once you're up there, descend slowly. And REPEAT! You'll eventually grow the arm-strength required to pull yourself up without the chair. And presto!

Yes, you do need a pull-up bar for this. Or if you're smart, you can hang onto the ledge of a loft if you have one of them at home.  

Dead-lift
Here's a tough one, which is why, it's left for the last. And you need gym equipment for this one. But if you can nail this move, you virtually don't need to perform anything else to strengthen your body. It needs your entire body, arms, legs, abs bums and the whole shebang to work in unison. So not only does it strengthen your entire body, it also gets your body to work in sync. 

Here's the mechanics of it-

The bar travels from the floor to the top in one straight line. 

Here's what things look like in motion.

For illustrative purposes, I'd have liked the next one better.... err..

The way this lady's doing it though, is a bit off. But I know, it's fun, right?.

Keep the back as flat as possible, don't let it round up like this...

 Push the weight off the ground with your legs, and focus on keeping your back straight. Else, it'll screw your back and you could even get a herniated disc (slipped-disc). But do it right, and you'll be of the few who have a balanced body. Like a boss. 

Butt-cracking jokes

I look outside the window and see the clouds that are going to soon turn into rain. But for now, Mumbai is left standing for a downpour. Yes, there are a few Mumbai folks who have managed to click photos of a few instances where the clouds have pissed around for fun. But the city looks somewhat parched.

Rains... I remember, my last proper date, it happened in Kerala, just as the rains were starting out. My left hand and myself, ahahahaha.....we danced and waltzed and all. Ahem! What? It was this lovely woman, who put her trust in yours truly, and remained happily ever after for the next one month or so. Then everything burst into flames and I-remain-petrified-of-women-ever-after and things of that nature until recently. But lets not get into the recent events, for the sake of peacekeeping, for you see, if I were a bird, I'd happily choose to be a dove or something. A dove with a sexy arse, guns for wings, the head of a fire-breathing dragon and a fart so powerful that it would help me attain the speed of light on the day I consumed legumes!!

One second. How did things go from rains to farts? Anyway, since I mentioned the dove's arse, now I'll talk about butt-cracks. Butt-cracks are cleavages that are hilarious. They are your ticket to happiness in an age where breasts have been placed on a pedestal. More importantly, butt-cracks are cleavages that don't look good neither when blatantly put on display, or when subtly exposed. Especially not so when someone bends over and unsuspectingly displays their Grand Canyon. That even happened to Jeremy Clarkson, the ex-Topgear and now "whatever" host. Now you know how closely people watched TopGear. Let me not tell you which car review it happened during.

 A noteworthy observation about butt-cracks here. You see, those who have good, round, rumpy buttocks, are less likely to be embarrassed by the sight of their crack-at-the-back than those who don't have the(or have very small)  gluteus-maximus(the muscle in the bum). That's because the bum, if shapely, will keep your pants in place. So even if you are out of shape, but your derriere is nice and round, don't bother when you bend over. Just to be safe, WEAR A FUCKING BELT FOR FUCK'S SAKE!!! That especially holds true of your arse is droopy or absent altogether. But if you're ballsy(or butt-crackey) enough, screw the belt and....

To end on an even lighter note, here's a joke. A sardaar kid was up to no good at school, and as a result, some teacher of his gave him a good spanking. I know, horny teacher, she must have been into that kind of a thing. After the spanking, the disheartened(why?) mini-sardaar took his aching bums and went to the bathroom to 'assess' the extent of the damage. He looked his bum in the mirror and exclaimed.... "साली ने इतना मारा  की पिछवाड़े के दो टुकड़े कर दिये।" Translation: The bitch spanked me so bad, my arse's been split in two!

A brief history of... err... bollocks?

Let's talk five decades of humanity through the eyes of someone who's been around for a little over two. It's needless to say that opinions expressed here are purely personal, and if you see the name of a girl anywhere, that's the girl who I have a huge crush on....

For convenience sake, I'll start with the 70s because

a) that saves you from the gibberish I have to talk about the 60(about which I anyway know little about except for the Indo-China war, the whole hippie movement and a bit about Woodstock, about which, again, I just know that The Beetles and Bob Dylan didn't turn up for. And that there was a lot of drugs and sex there too.)

b) As I said, I know little about the 60 (actually, even about the 70s, 80s, 90s and even for that matter the 2000s.)
And so, about the 70s.. Oh shit! I don't know anything about the 70 except that Godfather, Sholay, Rocky, Star Wars, Golmaal, Taxi Driver and many more awesome movies came along in this decade. 

So lets get to the 80s where a lot happened... err like my parents must have graduated and things, 1984 went whizzing by and all of George Orwell's predictions got postponed for another 60 years. However, Mr. Steven Jobs leveraged the idea behind Orwell's dystopian book and sold to many the Macintosh, which was just a fancy desktop computer that no one really wanted, but bought anyway(As with most things Apple sells). The drugs must have worn off or something, everyone getting off the hangover. What that did was give people no other choice but to twerk to disco music, goodness that atrocious thing! Why didn't the Terminator come along and take out Bappi Lahiri and the Bling-gang? We could have gotten rid of the 90s altogether! But then, the inevitable 90s came.

With the onset of the 90s, the Gen-X population started getting threatened by their successors, the toddlers that were going to be quite unimaginatively called Gen-Y. Us basically. Cranky, pesky choice-riddled brats who saw more of the world through a screen than through their own eyes. Very strange. What LSD and pot was to the 60s and 70s, it's Facebook, Whatsapp and Twitter for us now. We're the gang who take pride in saying things like....

The sad bit? I know Jiggly Puff is responsible for this facial graffiti. That still doesn't make me awesome. 

 I'd say....

The worst are the little retards that go about singing the 90s....

And about yours truly....

Yes, I do realize I might run into a few copyright issues. But who gives a shit?

I'm just petrified about our population that's come into existence after the 2000s. What do they say? Oh! I was born with a cell-phone up my arse and my speech bubble looks like...

And are these kids called Gen-Z by any chance? If so, what are we going to call the next generation? And why were Gen-A-through-W so lost in obscurity?

The Week, Every week

A second passes, just like a minute, which too races away along with the hour, day, week, month, year and eventually a lifetime. Then you’re like, “Where did that shit go?”

But let’s take a reasonable time frame to look at how things go down, say a week. It’s said that time doesn’t come back. Strangely, Mondays are a persistent. Then again, let’s start with the dreariest day of all… Sunday. 

That’s how it all starts, right? Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday… Eight days of the week. If you start counting days with Monday, boy, you’re some mature person. Also, your week is one day shorter, which however, in the larger scheme of things, shouldn’t make a difference.

Back to Sunday, the worst amongst its daily siblings. Why so? Because you wake up to the thoughts of the impending Monday, then you sulk all day, and the day just whooshes by like a fart. Yes, the beaches and promenades are also crowded with cheerful chirpy people, mostly couples eating away at each other’s heads. It’s either them or aunties who are fruitlessly trying to lose the last 10 pounds that they have been trying to for the past 4000 years. The uncles don’t run. They walk around, do their share of weekly ogling, go home and masturbate like hell! I almost forgot the pesky kids! Who gives these creatures the tricycles? Every time you’re out on a run, these tiddly things veer into your way, and then you need to be careful to not knock their bobby heads off. Yeah, Sundays are bad.

Onto motley Mondays. It’s like walking at 3kph and then suddenly being thrown onto a treadmill moving at 450kph. You can imagine the trip and the kind of rash that you’re left with when your face hits the treadmill’s conveyor belt. If you manage to get ready to take on the world by 12 in the afternoon, it’s cool. You can go to work in peace, reach without having to wring a litre of sweat from your shirt, and get fired from your job of course. Else, you can get up at 3 in the morning, get ready by 3:30am and sneak out before anyone steps out onto the road or the train. You’ll be office-and-dry, no one will notice, and you’ll curse yourself for not having slept those 3 extra hours. You can also wake up at 7, get stuck in the mad traffic, or jam-packed trains, and reach work at 9 in the night, and back home 3 days after. So yes, there’s no way around Monday unless you plan on turning into a house-wife.

Tuesdays are a bit easier. Most people who left work for Monday won’t return till Thursday, and those who returned did so because they lost their jobs. So the battle-field is less crowded. And that’s a lie. Apparently, a lot of people migrated to your city from Bihar the night before, which means only one thing. It’s about as crowded as Monday, and you get to hear a lot of amusing abuses. But yeah, you don’t have to be an un-payed employee at home.

Then we have Wednesdays, which feel vague , honestly. In fact, the world could probably have done without Wednesdays. Or maybe, it should be turned into a holiday or something. You see, it can’t compete with Tuesdays, let alone Mondays, for its sheer energy quotient. And since Thursday is a work-day, the lady won’t go out with you. Now that sucks.

It’s now time for the day before Friday! Yay! Yay!... err.. Yay! Thursday is kind of cool. You look forward to the next day, there’s usually not a lot of work. And precisely when you think that, some gloating idiot comes along with a chest-high stack of work that needs to be sorted. You slap your palm on your forehead and decide to jump off the top of your office building. Nah, you sit till late, finish off the entire pile of stuff that’s supposed to be the most urgent thing in life (sadly you know it isn’t), go home and doze off, hoping tomorrow will be better.

TGIF-- Thank Goodness (or God) It’s Friday-- Now that’s an expensive chain of restaurants set up to celebrate just one day of the entire week. The chap who came up with the idea, a guy named Alan Stillman, opened the first TGI Friday’s in New York in 1965. What’s strange is that he opened the restaurant on 15^th March, which turns out to be a Monday. Why Alan?
Coming to Fridays, they’re fun, the people are unusually cool. They don’t honk madly when you cut lanes while driving, and will even let you pass first across a barricade if you shift down a gear and bury the throttle into the car’s firewall. Even the trains have an easier-going crowd, unless of course you are getting on at Dadar. Well, in that place, you need to fight to get into the train even if it’s a Sunday afternoon, when everyone’s sleeping. I wonder who’s hustling at that time. On Friday, your lady looks particularly gorgeous, and the work is a little rushed because everyone’s itching to go to the late-night party (save for yours truly). You decide to go for a little sun-down drive in the opposite direction of your home. Roads are empty, but some bum’s driving at 7kph right on the dividing line, and so, you honk, flash the lights, hurl curses and try to give the guy ahead a piece of your mind. Sadly, he never gets it. Or maybe he does, because he moved to the left. But you don’t care if he got it or shat his pants, or snorted coke. You shift down to third, slam the throttle and shoot ahead with squealing wheels, leaving the world behind in the dust. Man, that Honda City is quick! You might miss out on the movie you planned on watching because of your nightly ventures though. But then, that’s what Saturdays are for.

So, Friday night fever is over, the tyres have cooled down, and a good chunk of the city is hung over. Perfect time for a workout! But you press the snooze button and doze off for another four hours, and bloody hell! It’s 11 in the morning!! That means half the day is gone, the newspaper is probably lying in tatters, and the coffee is over. So you trudge to the shop downstairs, see a bar of dark chocolate on the shelf, pay the money, eat the chocolate on the climb back home and…. Oh shit. You forgot the coffee. Screw it. Black tea today. After downing three movies, a family pack of ice cream, and four bananas, or seven, I don’t know, it’s evening. Meaning it’s time for some deadlifts! Basically you lift a barbell, loaded with all the weight plates in the gymnasium, straight off the floor. Something like this…..

Okay, she does it better.... Looks a lot sexier. 

You do it till your butt hurts, then go home, fall on your bed and into a deep slumber until ugly Sunday wakes you up again.