Of diets and salad leaves...

Ah, the joy of being one with the world! Of knowing that I am one of the teeming masses, unhappy with their looks (whether benign or malignant) and having sworn to resolve the issue by hook or by crook, embarked upon a journey of self sacrifice and will powering.

Gandhi would've been proud I say. We should all have been recruits in the hunger abhiyans by now, serving to save the nation as well as our sad behinds. Sigh. To have been born in the right age.

What can I say about Salad leaves that hasn't already been said? That they're green and go well only with substances destined to destroy the very reason d'etre of the former? Salads and dressings go together like... well, cheese and lasagna. One cannot simply take one and separate from the other and expect them to like it, can one?

And yet after years of looking at the decrepit (they are rotted to perfection you know... the rotter the better) and harmless looking hunks of yellow (or blue depending on the type), one wonders. Does cheese kill? Would the salad be worth having without all the calories?

The apes did us a bad turn the day they Became. Who ever heard of an ape looking at a fat behind (or befront for that matter) and going on a diet? I have it on good authority that in the apes (as they exist today) the fatter the better. No slim shadies for them.

On the other hand, there's always the option of exercise. Swingin from the trees is all fine, but getting on a runway that never goes anywhere (or a pair of wheels that do nothing much else) is far too symbolic of the human tragedy to be bearable. That and its boring.

Now if there was a way to watch the calories off through television, there'd be a glut of beauties sittin in their parlours watching the neighborhood saas and bahus gain weight.

Or for the hepper vein (such as I, I might add), watch the friendly not so neighborhood blonde bombshells (puleeze, all serials HAVE to have one of those; its like the K factor) gettin some weight where it DOESN'T count :D

Or maybe the Victorians had it right. Fat babes, with delicate sensibilities to boot. No one expected THOSE prima donnas to work without a bevvy of maids and a barrel of smelling salts. Kept the men on their working boots and good for them too.

As I said earlier... to have been born in the right age. I ain't fat for my age; I'm behind the times.