Moderation is the key

Most people do not believe me, but I am a moderate man.

- K.C. VERMA

Moderately lazy, moderately ugly, moderately fat and moderately allergic to mirrors that reflect this truth. I am also moderately deaf to the sales pitch of sundry fitness gurus who promise six-packs before breakfast and immortality by dinner.

Yet, over the past few months, a faint, mocking giggle has been emanating from my bathroom mirror every time I attempt the heroic act of pulling in my stomach. A routine blood test revealed that I was cruising dangerously close to the red zone of a thing called 'F&PP Sugar' and its evil twin, 'kolestrosomething.' I tried to ignore the reports, but my friend Gopu, that walking wickedpedia of half-baked advice, cornered me. “Lose weight, yaar,” he whispered. “Start with a fitness tracker. Order from Ammajan ki Dukan.”

Two days later, Amazon delivered a box so sleek it could be mistaken for a cigarette case. Inside was the tracker, a glossy pebble of promise, and—believe it or not—a CD. A CD! My laptop laughed so hard I had to restart it twice. After three hours of clicking, swearing, and an accidental Zoom call to my dentist, I managed to register the gizmo. The app then interrogated me with all the suspicion of a prospective mother-in-law: age, weight, stride length, pulse rate, samosas consumed per week, zodiac sign, and whether I snore more at night or during my siesta. The app assured me that this violation of privacy was essential to ensure “optimum effort for maximum performance”.