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 ...