The Slimming Ordeal

Reality

Glory days (yours truly second from left)

Let's face it; all women are vainpots. It's just the degree of vanity that dfferentiates one from the other. Even this old self, by any account pretty comfortable with her crow's feet and sagging skin, is sometimes overwhelmed by sudden pangs of insecurity.

For a greater part of my life, I was slim and trim, not an ounce above 160 pounds (ideal for my height at 5ft 6 inches), thanks to an overload of nicotine and caffeine.

As a journalist, I led a very unhealthy lifestyle, puffing some 40 sticks of cigarettes a day and drowning myself in copious cups of coffee.

Then, I could go without food but couldn't survive without cigarettes. After 25 years of smoking, I thought I could never wean myself off those cancer sticks, but I did. Six years ago I quit cold turkey and haven't touched one since.

And then there were the occasional wine and other liquors. I had been drinking socially since my 20s but managed to lay off liquor for good many years ago by staying away from temptation.

I found a healthier (and saner) life without 'rokok' and 'arak', syukur Alhamdulillah. The only snag is that my weight balloons; "Macam kena pam!" as someone close commented so tactlessly. Nothing could be further from the truth though.

Spreading middle is something many of us have to contend with once we reach middle age. The lucky ones spared this blight usually are already stick thin to begin with.

Perhaps it's in the genes. One look at my Megat forefathers where most of the men tower above six feet and the women built solid like a brick house (presumably to withstand the Megat male shenanigans), and I know I shall never be the petite, dainty lass clamoured by so many.

I reckon 'pleasantly plump' would be the kindest way to explain my physical disposition. But I also know I'm in danger of being a real fat-ass (Actually I already am, just exercising my prerogative to deny it) if I am not careful with my diet.

Then again, ample derriere is something I can cope with; after all, I have always appreciated the 'tonggek'ness of those salt-of-the-earth African women.

They, and not the likes of that obnoxious Naomi Campbell or Iman or other such reed-thin, emaciated-looking black models who would not look out of place in Darfur or Biafra, are the real deal.

At some point last year I was overcome with the need to regain my lost youth. It was truly pathetic, I know; all because I looked into the mirror and saw a grossly-out-of-shape half-centurian with shockfuls of grey hair and folds of excess fat.

It was such a horrible sight that I sped off like a woman possessed to a slimming centre at The Curve, harbouring high hopes of returning to 36-24-36 of yesteryears and fitting into a single digit sized dress all over again. (At this point, you can all chorus, "Dream On, Woman!")

It was my first and last visit. It was so unnerving that I swear I won't come within ten feet of a slimming centre ever again, even if someone pays me to lose weight.

If at all, I shall do it the time-honoured way, by exercising and eating a proper diet. Please don't ask me if this (the exercising, I mean) will ever happen. Writing it down while munching Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies laden with pecan and hazelnut is already half the battle won.

After the preliminaries i.e. filling in the many forms given, I was issued a small piece of rolled 'thingy' (it looked like a colourful popiah) which I later discovered was disposable panties.

I was to strip to the barest minimum (leaving just the bra) and somehow wriggle my way, fat-ass and all, into this bit of 'kain perca'. I unrolled the 'popiah' and gasped.

Could this teeny weeny 'thing' cover my uhm... modesty ... on two counts? It was smaller than a lady's laced handkerchief and could hardly cover my palm, let alone.... oh, never mind.

Anyway, peeled off my kurung I did, and there sat I in a room in this almost naked state, pouch hanging dejectedly, while a girl who looked younger than my own daughter took my measurements (with a straight face, thankfully).

I can't remember much of the first treatment, except that I was asked to sit in a hot, steamy cubicle for an eternity (I nearly fainted from the heat). The next treatment was to lie motionless for the longest hour of my life, strapped in a straitjacket-like apparel, while the steaming continued.

When the whole ordeal was over, I looked like a lobster and felt like a steamed kerapu (garoupa). I was to go through the same treatment for 20 times and pay through my nose before all the excess fat could be burned off.

"No thanks", said I hastily as I fled as fast as my thunder thighs could carry, taking off into the sunset, love handle wobbling and pouch hanging ....


PS: Pak Abu, when related this story, said: "You look ok, what... Where got gemuk?" That man really knows how to 'cari makan'.

Also, I think he was thankful he had just saved a big chunk of cash that he was willing to turn a blind eye on my 'montel'ness.