Let me explain. The man now wants his wife to be a bit of a trophy…shed her flab, be agile, eat less junk, go on a chocolate strike etc. The man forgets very conveniently that a banyan tree, even if you don’t water it for a year, remains as ample and robust (Really?? Who cares?).
The bright new spark is that he’s going to teach me tennis in the neighbourhood park…the place that’s quite obviously frequented by cute blondes in their fluffy, pointless, polka-dotted hardly theres, and skinny males, in their physique-accentuating tights and waxed bodies. OH COME ON!!! You can’t be serious? I’ve never held a tennis racket in my whole butterball life!
It all started, when I was this well-fed kid, still managing to run across packed school corridors in break time under Mrs Solomon’s watchful eyes. She howled at me first, and later at my father, during a PTA, saying that I was going to invite an unnecessary casualty by playing so dangerously.
Thus, the Marion Jones in me was nipped in the bud by a concerned and near-neurotic father, who preferred having a sizable daughter to running to the emergency ward with a gorgeous and skinny child who had three broken teeth and a fractured torso.
Getting back to reality, nothing’s stopping my man. My Yonex rackets have arrived. God help me, coz I am terrified.