Results of the office snap poll suggest that I am the only person in the entire world who puts on weight when I go to Bali. The under 45s (kilograms that is) in HR laud the benefits of eating fresh tropical fruit, drinking loads of water and walking miles in the heat as a sure fire way of dropping at least 2kgs upon their return. No sisterhood solidarity there it seems. Undaunted I turned my attention to the Tech team to widen my sample. Two of them pooh-poohed Bali as a destination of choice in favour of Malaysia - their silicon Mecca, and the third, well, let's just say that he chooses not to eat food that touches each other on the plate; so he has his own hills to climb. Even Big Red (the loved one) happily jumps on the scales prior to leaving confident that he too will come back sleeker than when he left.
I was absolutely determined that I would not fall foul to this repeat behaviour on our recent trip. Goal setting and preplanning were in order if I was to break this continued pattern of destruction. My mission was to undertake some form of planned exercise every day to ensure calories in matched calories out. My body was going to be my temple.
Upon arrival at our hotel, and with new found resolve I headed to the daily activities board. With the exception of the fruit carving session there was some form of physical activity scheduled every morning. The planets appeared to be aligning.
Yoga was scheduled for Day 1. I had obviously missed the memo about racer-back tops being the attire of choice. As I parked myself at the back of the group it soon became obvious that the racer-back is used solely for the purpose of framing perfectly formed and equally symmetrical scapulas. Who knew?
Namastes over and done with we quickly became mountains and warriors and bridges and cow faces (which incidentally I appeared to be good at. I chose not to share this information with Big Red.) I was on a roll as I morphed into the downward dog. At this point I could only liken myself to a human lamp shade with my Nike t-shirt inverted over my head with the words 'Just Do It' flapping across the bridge of my nose. Oxygen was fast depleting in the tepee as I had my own private Bikram yoga session. With that, I collapsed in an undignified heap. Fifteen minutes in and I was done. If a tree falls in a forest, does it make a noise? Well, I'm guessing that the racer-backs would say no given that they all gracefully transformed into cranes and moved on. I slunk off to lick my wounds and find my dignity in the breakfast buffet.
Day 2 saw water aerobics scheduled in the main pool. Pretty Young Thing (PYT) in the strapless bikini top was front and centre in the pool. She was literally bounding in the water like an unfettered Labrador. It's fair to say there were a few eye rolls from the grande dames of the group as PYT followed the routines with effortless ease. George was the token male in the group and it was clear to see that he had forgiven his wife for dragging him to water aerobics. It then came time for the group whirlpool. Now some of these dames were what could be best described as Rubenesque and the centrifugal force generated in that water was wondrous to behold. PYT was one of those under 45s (kilograms that is) and was immediately sucked into the vortex. One dump and she was down. Quick as a wink she was up and spluttering with an 'I'm okay' - which wasn't really true. Only George was the one that was truly okay. PYT's bikini top had headed south and one of her PLBs (Perky Little Breasts) was saluting the sun. George's day was just getting better and better. He was going to dine out on this story at the RSL for quite a while.
Day 3 (fruit carving day) Big Red and I embarked on an intended vigorous walk along the beach. We had overslept and the sun was well and truly beating down by the time we hit the shoreline. We were a bit over it before we even started but neither of us wanted to be the first to admit defeat. Enthusiasm picked up as we meandered past the more upmarket hotels. The early morning sun worshippers were already out on their sun loungers and it quickly became obvious that some mounds were obviously more gelatinous than others. We embarked on a game called 'pick the implants' to take our minds off the relentless sun.
Day 4 was to be scuba diving at the pool. Instead the house keeping guy found us hiding in the darkened room as we nursed our sunburn. He felt so sorry for us that he held off on the effusive frangipani placement and left us a big handful of Mentos instead. (Funny how tsk, tsk appears to be common across all languages.)
Finally, on Day 5 as I half-heartedly made my way to the resort gym at the crack of dawn I almost crashed into Wayan who was crouching down organising his morning offering. He looked up at me and smiled and it was at that moment that I had an epiphany. I had been so determined to treat my body as a temple that, in the land of predominantly Hindus, I had lost sight of what that truly means.
In the name of cultural diversity - a mosque is a temple too, right?
Miss M (with some poetic license :))