To be ‘Fit’ or To ‘Fit in’? That is the question.

Place: Courtyard, Raheja Gardens
Time: 7 AM

Specimen 1: Middle aged. Receding hairline. A hint of chest fur pops out from the open collar of the t-shirt. With a protruding potbelly, perspiring profusely, he huffs and puffs, while what can be only termed as ‘An attempt to jog'.

Specimen 2: Sweat beads drip from her eyebrows down by the side of her noticeably wrinkled face. The smudged ‘kum kum’ resembles an open, bleeding gash on the forehead, symbolic of domestic violence. With wobbling, thunder things in skin tight, capri track-pants, she speed-walked, leaving the ground trembling in her wake.

Specimen 3: Easily above 60. Calm and serene, in the ‘Bhraman Pranayama’ position, sat the distinguished, grey haired, old man uncannily resembling the modern day sage.

Specimen 4: A group of white sari clad ladies sit huddled together on cold, stone benches, as though a conspiracy was being planned. Instead they groan in unison, singing hymns, with sand paper voices. Alley cats being strangled seem more appeasing to the ears than the above.

Specimen 5: Fair. Almost white. Like a ghost. A 1997 Nick Carter hairstyle flopped across his face. Muscles rippled out of the skin-tight sleeveless vest like waves crashing against the shoreline. He bounds out of the gym, glistening. Maybe from sweat. Quite possibly from Vaseline. He would have slapped some on to get the glisten. He looks the kind to do the same.

Specimen 6: The kind I detest. Skinny as a rail. A noticeably taut tummy. With long flowing hair, tied up in a ponytail which swished from side to side, as she jogged across. Determined, she plowed past, with an I pod firmly injected into her ears. I could swear I saw water proof make-up carefully applied on her face. Bitch.

And finally.

Specimen 7: Me. Yawning with disheveled hair. Still in my ‘Reindeers on a summer vacation’ pajamas and B’s t-shirt. Rubbing out the sleep in my eyes while being dragged across the courtyard by a viciously sniffing springer spaniel on a mission. A mission to take a dump.

Be ‘fit’ or ‘fit in’?

Nah! I’d rather curl up with my extra layers of cozy fat and snooze for another hour.

It’s the simpler alternative. And I like Simple. He’s always been a true friend. He also makes complications disappear.