I’ve always known that I am a tough guy! The kind you find in M&B’s (No, not mine, I have occasionally glanced through them to detect what girls find so engrossing in them)

The 6 foot, tanned, muscular, macho stud (I can imagine, right, it’s my mind and I’ll do what I want to conjure with it). Anyway let’s not get into nitty-gritties here and do nitpicking. I am tough. Period. End of story.

This morning I woke up at 5. 30 AM. Haaaaaaa! How many of you have done that? I woke up, put on my walking shoes and walked. I feel so proud. And I feel so tough. I won the Battle of the Bed. The Battle of the Bulge now begins. I can now imagine why these generals of armies and old commanders of ships are so pompous. I know what it feels to win battles and emerge a victor.

I managed seven rounds. Not bad for a start, eh? My management guru had told me that anyone who believes in his dream and has the courage to work towards it in the face of opposition is a tough guy, a hero. He also told me that you must do it with single mindedness and honesty. Coming to think of it, I am a hero. Though my better half would laugh! She would!

Anyway I am dressed like a tough guy! I simply had to get the right shoe. Nike. The “just do it” has a compelling “get up and walk” command to it. Never mind the price. It’s like walking on hot air. Besides so many other things the phrase reminds me of. I feel so youthful with them on.

I tried shorts, but they sort of tarnish the tough guy image a bit. Quite the opposite of what they would call “thunder” thighs. So I stuck to a decent pair of track pants. The t-shirts, I picked up a dozen, all bright, all sleeveless. I have a decent pair of biceps.

I need deo’s and sprays. Overall Project “Walk” has been an expensive proposition. But it’s worth every inch. Very soon, all the jiggles and shakes will disappear! I will become the man I always dreamt I was.

There are more battles ahead. The next one that I see is the Beauty and the Feast. On one side is the beauty that walks in grace in the park every morning and on the other side is the heavy rosewood table laden with goodies like Poulet a la Delightful and Black Forest Sensation. And in the middle are bulging cheese sandwiches – and all the birds and animals and all that swims in the ocean, roasted and fried in bare naked glory!

The Feast is something I must turn my back on! And I cut the fat and chase the beauty. It’s tough, being tough. Sometimes I wish I could tell the beauty to take a walk and sit down to eat. To my heart’s content. But heck, I must be tough. I feel like crying.

Somehow, the pressure on being the ideal new age man is mounting. He’s expected to be fit and fine. He should have his manicures and pedicures and facials. (Remember the time a Bombay bombshell landed up and our Chennai Chums were packed to the temple in gooey mudpaste?)

Sometimes I look back fondly at those simple days when men were not expected to cry…do facials…walk...to be a new-age man. Those days are gone. Forever.

In those days, sweat was manly. And Deo’s were for women.

Ok. Enough of all this.

Time to hit the spa.