Brain vs brawn - the ultimate showdown
Ms T enters the gym to find out if intelligence really trumps good looks.
Ms T enters the gym to find out if intelligence really trumps good looks.
The trouble with us fat people is not the suffering which emanates from the occasional bouts of low self-esteem when we look into the mirror, but also the realisaton that we don’t exactly cause ripples of excitement amongst leaner members of the opposite sex.
This can partially be attributed to the perpetual presence of the ripped, macho, Adonis-types strutting around every gym. We would feel a lot better if we could oust the scrawny ones out of the equation completely so that women have no choice but to accept the more well-endowed models.
As a portly child, I once heard someone say, that unlike men, when it comes to choosing partners, women do not prioritise appearances — that women prefer substance over looks and brains over brawn. But I grew up seeing hordes of women swooning over the likes of Salman Khan. I figured out that something was wrong with my theory. Clearly, the buff male ideal was what women sought and dreamt of. This meant that there was little, if any, hope for us flabby, overweight mortals, unless, of course, the cherished muscular prototype was shown to be devoid of grey matter. Soon after this thought dawned upon me, I made a silent pledge to myself to prove this someday. Meanwhile, I dived into my double-fudge sundae.
After receiving numerous hints from friends and acquaintances to lose the flab, I finally joined a gym — overtly to shed the blubber. Secretly, it was really meant to allow me to test my hypothesis about muscular men and that, too, within their territory. Incredibly sneaky (and sad) of me, I admit.
For somebody like me who had never stepped inside a gym before, my first day was undeniably an eye-opening experience for me. What I was about to discover within the sweaty, smelly confines of the gym, was one of the most unique breeds of Pakistani men that remains unknown to society at large — except their own kind, of course. And out of purely selfless motives, I believe it would do the women of our country (in particular those who drool over gym-goers) a world of good to learn about the characteristics of this distinctive species which eats, sleeps and breathes exercise and doesn’t do much else in life.
So what can one say about this particular specimen of mankind based on a cursory observation from a distance? Not so much, to be honest. In fact, he appears rather ordinary, seemingly harmless and quite docile and this is where it gets alarming. For it is only when one gets up close and personal with the gym-goer and has an opportunity to share his views on an array of issues that one experiences a gamut of emotions — from utter disbelief to hysterical giggles. If nothing else, the sheer confidence with which he will narrate a story in which he reduces the rival to pulp and emerges as the hero who saves the day will merit a standing ovation.
The very first day, I was introduced to S* bhai, who was allegedly a famous soap actor during the 1990s and now spends his days either clubbing or pumping iron at the gym. Yes, those are the only two things he proudly claims to do. While flexing his biceps until his veins threatened to pop out, he told me how he had spent the previous night partying until the sunrise with some attractive young women on a yacht.
The only problem is, back in the 1990s, he was possibly a handsome 20-year-old, but now having crossed his forties, and close to hitting a half-century, the story about cavorting with nubile twenty-somethings was hardly anything to flaunt. As he was telling us his story, the door opened and his two daughters gamboled in, chanting “Daddy! Daddy!” in a chorus. When they departed, an impressed young bystander turned to him and enviously asked, “Bhai, does your wife know how about the fun you have at these parties?” To which he boasted, “Of course, she knows, yaar! She is totally chill with me partying, as long as I don’t leave her!”
I gradually discovered that these double lives were normal for nearly all of the health freaks at the gym. Apparently, they all lived a fun life, peppered with alcohol, women and easy money. Ask them what they do for a living and they would all usually respond the same way — “We run our own business”. From what they describe, they run the entire business on their own, with minimal assistance from a few subordinates, who are ‘useless’. Additionally, their work often necessitates travel meetings scheduled in Dubai, or better yet, Thailand. All of them profess to know the best vacation spots (read: massage parlours) in the Far East. They are all super busy — divided between playing golf, making business trips, visiting their factories and last, but certainly not the least, partying. However, their regular presence at the gym every single day at 5:00pm sharp remains a puzzling fact for me.
Which is why I also do not understand when they get the time to meet the throngs of women dying to hang out with them, if they are busy sweating buckets at the smelly gym machines every day? Apparently, time does not seem to be a barrier as they could all list down the names of women who were crazy about them at the drop of a hat. Clearly, age was not a hindrance either — even the middle-aged ones spoke with utmost confidence about being chased by young attractive women.
In the middle of discussion that varies from the amount of raw eggs consumed daily to the quickest way of building a steel posterior, spiked with testosterone-fuelled cricket commentary, I came to know that many of these men also took an active interest in the political scenario of the country. They had varying approaches but shared the utopian goal of leading all politicians to the gallows. In fact, the very day before Dr Tahirul Qadri signed his groundbreaking agreement, S* Bhai was airing his views on the incompetent government using the choicest of adjectives. What’s more, he foresaw that within the next 24 hours there would be a historic change, when the old order would collapse like a pack of cards, and a fresh set of clean, untainted faces would take its place. What foresight, what wisdom!
So far, my hypothesis had been delightfully true. Within one week, I had stumbled upon a self-absorbed, delusional species whose conversation reeked of empty bravado and machismo. I could now proceed to enlighten the rest of humanity about my great findings and make the world a happier, bulkier place. Silently celebrating my victory, I turned to bid farewell to the gym, when I overheard one gym-goer talking about how he seriously respects women. I could not help but eavesdrop as my heart sank at the realisation that I may have been wrong. I hesitantly turned towards the heaving pile of glistening flesh on the rickety steel bench and timidly asked, “You do?”
His reply was most reassuring: “Totally, man. I respect women for trying this hard to look good for us. I mean they wear high heels, man. Can you imagine the pain they go through? Just for us. Respect.”
Needless to say, I treated myself to an upsized double cheeseburger meal and a milkshake for lunch that day.
*Names have been changed to protect identities
Published in The Express Tribune, Ms T, November 17th, 2013.
This can partially be attributed to the perpetual presence of the ripped, macho, Adonis-types strutting around every gym. We would feel a lot better if we could oust the scrawny ones out of the equation completely so that women have no choice but to accept the more well-endowed models.
As a portly child, I once heard someone say, that unlike men, when it comes to choosing partners, women do not prioritise appearances — that women prefer substance over looks and brains over brawn. But I grew up seeing hordes of women swooning over the likes of Salman Khan. I figured out that something was wrong with my theory. Clearly, the buff male ideal was what women sought and dreamt of. This meant that there was little, if any, hope for us flabby, overweight mortals, unless, of course, the cherished muscular prototype was shown to be devoid of grey matter. Soon after this thought dawned upon me, I made a silent pledge to myself to prove this someday. Meanwhile, I dived into my double-fudge sundae.
After receiving numerous hints from friends and acquaintances to lose the flab, I finally joined a gym — overtly to shed the blubber. Secretly, it was really meant to allow me to test my hypothesis about muscular men and that, too, within their territory. Incredibly sneaky (and sad) of me, I admit.
For somebody like me who had never stepped inside a gym before, my first day was undeniably an eye-opening experience for me. What I was about to discover within the sweaty, smelly confines of the gym, was one of the most unique breeds of Pakistani men that remains unknown to society at large — except their own kind, of course. And out of purely selfless motives, I believe it would do the women of our country (in particular those who drool over gym-goers) a world of good to learn about the characteristics of this distinctive species which eats, sleeps and breathes exercise and doesn’t do much else in life.
So what can one say about this particular specimen of mankind based on a cursory observation from a distance? Not so much, to be honest. In fact, he appears rather ordinary, seemingly harmless and quite docile and this is where it gets alarming. For it is only when one gets up close and personal with the gym-goer and has an opportunity to share his views on an array of issues that one experiences a gamut of emotions — from utter disbelief to hysterical giggles. If nothing else, the sheer confidence with which he will narrate a story in which he reduces the rival to pulp and emerges as the hero who saves the day will merit a standing ovation.
The very first day, I was introduced to S* bhai, who was allegedly a famous soap actor during the 1990s and now spends his days either clubbing or pumping iron at the gym. Yes, those are the only two things he proudly claims to do. While flexing his biceps until his veins threatened to pop out, he told me how he had spent the previous night partying until the sunrise with some attractive young women on a yacht.
The only problem is, back in the 1990s, he was possibly a handsome 20-year-old, but now having crossed his forties, and close to hitting a half-century, the story about cavorting with nubile twenty-somethings was hardly anything to flaunt. As he was telling us his story, the door opened and his two daughters gamboled in, chanting “Daddy! Daddy!” in a chorus. When they departed, an impressed young bystander turned to him and enviously asked, “Bhai, does your wife know how about the fun you have at these parties?” To which he boasted, “Of course, she knows, yaar! She is totally chill with me partying, as long as I don’t leave her!”
I gradually discovered that these double lives were normal for nearly all of the health freaks at the gym. Apparently, they all lived a fun life, peppered with alcohol, women and easy money. Ask them what they do for a living and they would all usually respond the same way — “We run our own business”. From what they describe, they run the entire business on their own, with minimal assistance from a few subordinates, who are ‘useless’. Additionally, their work often necessitates travel meetings scheduled in Dubai, or better yet, Thailand. All of them profess to know the best vacation spots (read: massage parlours) in the Far East. They are all super busy — divided between playing golf, making business trips, visiting their factories and last, but certainly not the least, partying. However, their regular presence at the gym every single day at 5:00pm sharp remains a puzzling fact for me.
Which is why I also do not understand when they get the time to meet the throngs of women dying to hang out with them, if they are busy sweating buckets at the smelly gym machines every day? Apparently, time does not seem to be a barrier as they could all list down the names of women who were crazy about them at the drop of a hat. Clearly, age was not a hindrance either — even the middle-aged ones spoke with utmost confidence about being chased by young attractive women.
In the middle of discussion that varies from the amount of raw eggs consumed daily to the quickest way of building a steel posterior, spiked with testosterone-fuelled cricket commentary, I came to know that many of these men also took an active interest in the political scenario of the country. They had varying approaches but shared the utopian goal of leading all politicians to the gallows. In fact, the very day before Dr Tahirul Qadri signed his groundbreaking agreement, S* Bhai was airing his views on the incompetent government using the choicest of adjectives. What’s more, he foresaw that within the next 24 hours there would be a historic change, when the old order would collapse like a pack of cards, and a fresh set of clean, untainted faces would take its place. What foresight, what wisdom!
So far, my hypothesis had been delightfully true. Within one week, I had stumbled upon a self-absorbed, delusional species whose conversation reeked of empty bravado and machismo. I could now proceed to enlighten the rest of humanity about my great findings and make the world a happier, bulkier place. Silently celebrating my victory, I turned to bid farewell to the gym, when I overheard one gym-goer talking about how he seriously respects women. I could not help but eavesdrop as my heart sank at the realisation that I may have been wrong. I hesitantly turned towards the heaving pile of glistening flesh on the rickety steel bench and timidly asked, “You do?”
His reply was most reassuring: “Totally, man. I respect women for trying this hard to look good for us. I mean they wear high heels, man. Can you imagine the pain they go through? Just for us. Respect.”
Needless to say, I treated myself to an upsized double cheeseburger meal and a milkshake for lunch that day.
*Names have been changed to protect identities
Published in The Express Tribune, Ms T, November 17th, 2013.