So I went to the gym last week.

Actually, it wasn't as bad I expected. Sure, initially it did hurt like hell. The first work-out left even my hair strands aching. But the trick, as any athlete will tell you, is to: (a) this is recommended - continue exercising, and (b) this is the key - find the right strength of painkiller dosage.

(If Panadol's working, your weight's not going anywhere. Increase push ups-till you need a Nimulid or several. Now you are on the road to becoming more attractive and also, as a bonus, will discover a whole new understanding and appreciation for music by The Doors, Pink Floyd, etc.)

Originally my plan was to go on diet, shamelessly cheat on it, and cover up by complaining loudly about my Indian genes and how they will never, ever let me achieve a flat stomach. (Nothing unites Indian women more strongly than a conversation about their insubordinate bellies, with the possible exception of a discussion about their contempt for Aishwarya Rai and her "smile")

But then one of my minuscule girlfriends called up and announced that she will be visiting me later this year. "Let's leave the men behind and fly off to a beach!" she coaxed me. "Just us girls, just like old times!" It was infectious, as nostalgia always is. The grass is always greener on the other side of our age. I said yes, we booked our tickets, I started flipping through our old school pictures. And then it hit me.

Just like old times! Dear Gawd! Isn't that where I discovered the fastest way to put on ten kilos? (which is to get into a photograph next to someone ten kilos lighter)

And this time I won't be able to hide the proof in dusty albums. The snapshot will be tagged in all its glory on Facebook, for the benefit of our hundreds of Facebook friends, who will comment, and take quizzes, and laugh knowingly when faced with the question - Who is more likely to get stuck in the elevator? No, Facebook, I do NOT want to know.

Understandably, I've tried to change the notification option on Facbook so that I never hear the answer, but after all the changes the site has been through, nobody knows how to change the settings any longer.

Which is why I'm doing the next best thing - joining the gym, with a personal trainer in tow. I can be found pushing dumb-bells, racing bikes, coaxing weights, tearing yoga mats, etc etc, but mostly stoned thereafter.

Of course, given my Indian genes, I need to have a Plan B too: I'll be mailing my Size-Zero friend thousands of chocolates in the next three months before she lands here. Three months may just about be enough ...

Mankind's Path

We just bought a car. And so Vipul has been driving me around Singapore, taking me on astonishing journeys, to places where so many Men Have Boldly Gone Before - Wrong Turns.

Now if this was Australia, where an innocent mistake can lead you to the parking lot of nudist beach instead of a scenic point, overlooking a disrobing man instead of the ocean, I wouldn't have complained. (This happened to us last year.) (Which is why Vipul replaced my directions with a GPS gadget.)

But Singapore, should you lose your way, is more likely to throw up a No U-turns highway instead of a conversation piece. Not that we ever 'lose our way' of course. We only 'take detours' which are certainly not in the direction opposite to what we intended, no matter what it looks like to me and my watch, and maybe I should let the melodic woman's voice on the GPS guide us instead. (The wench!) (Vipul doesn't follow her directions either.)

But I am not complaining. The additional hours and hours of travel have given me time to contemplate the plot of a science fiction book about computers gone wild. Where GPS systems evolve after a century of being perfected by engineers and ignored by drivers. They conspire with the cars' electronic systems and satellites to teach errant drivers a lesson. On Strike One: the steering locks if the driver tries to move in a direction different from what the system suggests. Strike Two: Seat belts lock around the car passengers, and the car self-steers itself to the destination. Strike Three: The car is taken over by computers, passengers are tied up in seat belts, doors lock, and the vehicle is sped into a horrific accident with other cars whose passengers are on Strike Three.

Naturally, in the end, all that's left in the world is women and lots of footage for channel Fox Crime. Oh how I love happy endings!