As friends and family can attest, I am notorious for overextending myself. I love to commit to ten dinner parties in a two hour period. I love to think I can train for a marathon and work two jobs and save the whales all at the same time. I also love to make unrealistic exercise goals for myself, and am thus inevitably laden with guilt and self-loathing when I do not accomplish said goals. Why shouldn’t I be able to rise every morning at 6am for a 6:30am yoga or martial arts class? I only abhor the mornings and think a reasonable time to start work is 10am and cannot possibly understand how anyone functions without caffeine in a typical workplace.
So when I decided to bring both my yoga matt and my inflatable exercise ball to India, it was most certainly a decision made by Jenn-the-Overextender. However, I am happy to report that I use my yoga matt 4-5 times per week and I manage to get to martial arts class 2-3 times per week. Surprisingly exciting! And yesterday I decided it was high time I blew up my purple exercise ball and had regular conversations with my abs (we have never really been on speaking terms because I was always too enamoured with beer. Le sigh.).
An inflated exercise ball proved to be a difficult thing to obtain. I did not bring a pump (smart) and so I accompanied Ari to our local bike-repair stand (consisting of a wagon under a tree with a dirty tarp strung from the branches to provide some shade). This man took one look at my pathetic, deflated ball and immediately told me – in Tamil and without being prompted – that he was not the fellow for the job. He helpfully gestured further down the road, repeating “right side, right side.” After Ari’s bike tires were sufficiently full of air, we continued on in our quest.
The lovely thing about our neighbourhood is that many of the locals are now quite used to seeing my pallid face roaming about, and look to help me whenever I appear even slightly confused. So as we stopped at various stands and stalls along the road, many different men were very glad (and not at all surprised) to direct us along to the mysterious place that would fill up an exercise ball. Finally, we found a bike stand that looked remarkably similar to the first, but who had a tiny attachment for their pump that gave them the competitive edge. Much to my chagrin, this tiny attachment was of no use with my ball. As first one man, and then two, and then three gathered to blow up the damn thing, spectators would pass by and offer their suggestions for how best to get the air to stay in. An older, half-naked gentleman smoking a cigarette paced between his fruit shop and the bike stand, muttering directions and looking rather sceptical. After about 10 minutes of heavy pumping, the ball was sufficiently inflated (and sufficiently dusty), and there was a mutual feeling of satisfaction in a job well done. I tipped 5 rupees on the 5 rupee labour charge, and let one of the men bounce the ball like a beach toy (which I’m sure was what they all assumed it was).
Let it be known that I did not let such an adventure go unwarranted: I did an ab workout this morning before breakfast. Making that a habit? I’d rather have an I.P.A…
So when I decided to bring both my yoga matt and my inflatable exercise ball to India, it was most certainly a decision made by Jenn-the-Overextender. However, I am happy to report that I use my yoga matt 4-5 times per week and I manage to get to martial arts class 2-3 times per week. Surprisingly exciting! And yesterday I decided it was high time I blew up my purple exercise ball and had regular conversations with my abs (we have never really been on speaking terms because I was always too enamoured with beer. Le sigh.).
An inflated exercise ball proved to be a difficult thing to obtain. I did not bring a pump (smart) and so I accompanied Ari to our local bike-repair stand (consisting of a wagon under a tree with a dirty tarp strung from the branches to provide some shade). This man took one look at my pathetic, deflated ball and immediately told me – in Tamil and without being prompted – that he was not the fellow for the job. He helpfully gestured further down the road, repeating “right side, right side.” After Ari’s bike tires were sufficiently full of air, we continued on in our quest.
The lovely thing about our neighbourhood is that many of the locals are now quite used to seeing my pallid face roaming about, and look to help me whenever I appear even slightly confused. So as we stopped at various stands and stalls along the road, many different men were very glad (and not at all surprised) to direct us along to the mysterious place that would fill up an exercise ball. Finally, we found a bike stand that looked remarkably similar to the first, but who had a tiny attachment for their pump that gave them the competitive edge. Much to my chagrin, this tiny attachment was of no use with my ball. As first one man, and then two, and then three gathered to blow up the damn thing, spectators would pass by and offer their suggestions for how best to get the air to stay in. An older, half-naked gentleman smoking a cigarette paced between his fruit shop and the bike stand, muttering directions and looking rather sceptical. After about 10 minutes of heavy pumping, the ball was sufficiently inflated (and sufficiently dusty), and there was a mutual feeling of satisfaction in a job well done. I tipped 5 rupees on the 5 rupee labour charge, and let one of the men bounce the ball like a beach toy (which I’m sure was what they all assumed it was).
Let it be known that I did not let such an adventure go unwarranted: I did an ab workout this morning before breakfast. Making that a habit? I’d rather have an I.P.A…
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