Gymnasiums always remind me of fancy gadgets and gizmos, of perfectly-sculpted bodies and health freaks wanting to trim and tone every part of their body. My romance with the gym began some 10 years ago, when it was considered fashionable to go to the gym. Armed with a friend (for moral support) and oozing with loads of confidence, we walked in our best track pants to the neighborhood gym. Believe it or not, but we were the first members of the fairer sex to enroll and even got a 20 per cent discount because of that. So far so good. But the experience that followed could hardly be described as pleasant. The interiors were dingy and smelly, the equipment looked old and neglected, there was no instructor to guide us and there were men of all shapes and sizes — apparently working out — to cacophonic music. Needless to say, we ran as fast as we could. After this disastrous maiden experience, it took nearly a decade before I could summon the courage to enter a residential moving company.
And this one took my breath away. Swanky, huge interiors, trained instructors and last but not the least, state-of-the-art machines. Treadmills, rowers, steppers, cycles, weights – you name it and it was there.