Transformation Tuesday Parodies


“The freakin’ fat better burn after this!”


One of the biggest definitions I know about Tuesdays is “Transformation Tuesdays”. You know, the one, where you make a collage of your picture, from earlier times and the other one, holding your sweatshirt up flaunting that envious stomach a la Khloe Kardashian. Or when you ask you ask someone to take a video of you doing a dead lift? How do you that by the way? I’m generally not even upfront about taking a selfie when I TRY to work out.


Here is, or rather was, my definition of transformation Tuesday. Get up from bed, go about your morning chores as usual, but then, you put some pants on, change into a fresh t-shirt and refrain from looking homeless like you always do on other days!

Okay, now, on serious note, let’s talk about the wave or rather a tsunami of fitness freaks that has hit the world. Don’t get me wrong, those who are one of the lots, I don’t mean bad when I call you a freak. To the world, you’re the inspiration, the motivation. To me, being someone who will hardly try to move a limb, you definitely are a freak. About fitness.

Throwing away any universal fact that claims to call me lazy, I’ve decided to join a workout class now! As astonishing it might seem, I decided this was going to be my ultimate resort before I head away from home in September. Belonging to a family that is super into fitness and healthy lifestyle, it would be safe to say that I feel like the rhino at the Kaziranga zoo. (It’s a lucky one though. At least it got to meet Kate Middleton).


It’s only been a week or two since I really took up working out, sincerely, because as usual, the other times were just half baked attempts. No transformation yet. But how do you expect to see the muscles until that cushioning of fries and burgers from yesterday melts away? So, instead of a picture, I’m just going to write about what it’s like for a tiny little blob of fat working out around the gym.

The alarm on my phone haunts me more than Conjuring 2 did. As soon as the phone bleeps, I first contemplate if waking up this early was of any good use to my otherwise boring days. But then, in two minutes, I remember yesterday’s food by my very Gujarati Ashwini and then try thinking about my pseudo hot body that I contemplate on achieving. By the time, I haven’t even put the toothbrush in my mouth; my father enters the room with the energy of a beaming teenager looking forward to exercising despite having worked late the previous day. (Like, dude, what do you eat to keep up that energy?). Dad’s insistent “Let’s go kiddo!” is an outstanding way to keep me up from disappearing back into my bed.

After a 10 minute drive, we are at the gym. My brother is seething in the front seat beside dad, because he hates being late for his gym sesh, and I’m to blame. Come on, the only thing that lifts my mood about working out is the gym wear I invested in. I have the right to sit and think what I’d wear to the gym after having spent some serious bucks on it!

The first thing that is right at the door is the weighing scale. Trust me y’all, its way more depressing than somebody telling you about the recent episode of suits which you haven’t yet caught up on. I try to skitter away from it, not wanting to hand over the key to my happiness to an electronic gadget that ruins lives of gym going people.


Ignoring the enthusiastic good mornings from 50 year olds who are fitter than my wrecked 20 year old self or my brothers’ gym freak friends who’ll tap me on the head like I’m still the one year old who they’d push along in a stroller.

One of gym nightmares will always be, seeing my trainer. Tears instantly fill up my eyes, as my body begins to contemplate the flexion and extension (read: trauma) it’s going to go through. Let’s put it straight, my trainer is fun, but yes, he’s a disciplinarian And since I’ve paid for personal training, I can’t cheat while I do the reps. The guy is right beside me like a hawk, making sure I do every one of the 25 crunches in a set.

While I’m dripping in sweat trying to do a chest press for one last time, walks in an immaculately dressed young girl of my age. Here I am, trying to melt the fat away faster than the glaciers in Greenland, and here she is “toning” her body. A flat stomach toned arms and legs (with the thigh gap) what more do you want to tone? But she has the amazing ability to make me feel like a seal trying to flap around its enclosure while children make funny faces at it!

An hour later, after having lifted weights, my face almost looking constipated when I got to the last set, having my eardrums damaged by my trainer who yells “LAST FIVE!” , doing squats which cause me the perennial butt-pain, seeing my dad work out like he’s about to do a movie next that requires him to bulk up and occasionally, hanging from my brother’s arm while he did overhead press (perks of being short and way too tinier than your brother), the gym session comes to an end!

While, I can’t manage to bend to take off my sports shoes, thanks to the sore muscles now, I take a quick look at the mirror in the shower rooms. The t-shirt looks roomier. Pulling it up a bit, I notice a slight difference to my stomach. Hmm, maybe it’s working. Maybe not. But it’s the placebo. I worked out. In a few months I’ll be posting my own collage. It’s not about just the looking good, or following the herd. But physical activity does make you feel great. The endorphins are high. There’s a skip in your step (or you walk crippled after you’ve done legs) and that feeling is enough to last you through the day.


Meanwhile interrupting my sudden liking to working out, is the cute boy, who I managed to be workout pals with working out diligently with all the gloves and all (Like how can you be this perfect?) who comes up to me and says “Hey! Good to see you ya! You’ve actually pulled down quite a bit!” My head does the biggest head jerk it can like “Whattt? Really?? Did you notice! Oh my god!” (All said in my mind of course). Mouthing a quick thank you and making a mental note to tell my best friend about him, I walk off with my brother who won’t stop punching me in the arm, I take out my phone, secretly wanting to do a snap story about the gym sesh. Instantly, pop up two stories from gym freaks doing dead lifts and kickboxing.

Sending a snap of my blotchy face to my friend, hoping she’ll motivate me further and tell me I was the next JLaw in town, I plan to stick to the goal. That one day, one fine day, I’ll walk into the gym, happier, more like the one on the TLC channel showing you how to work out, with a Lisa Haydon body doing Pilates, and posting my own picture of a transformation Tuesday!