Ah, the kettlebell. It sits there in a row of its beefier and wimpier cousins in this PT-class-reminiscent ‘height order’ on the racks, and taunts me. I’ve been a gym-goer for over three years now, and I still feel like a novice.
I stick to the three cardio machines I have managed to understand — nothing else ventured. This little safety strategy is because the equipment gives me this unbelievably snooty vibe — the same kind of daunting that approaching the coolest girls in school used to be.
One of the haughtiest is the kettlebell. If you don’t know what the hell that is, welcome to my life before a quick-Google-Image-Search three weeks ago. The kettlebell is an unapologetically heavy metal blob with a handle attached. It was part of a larger conspiracy to make you look like a total moron.
There is no graceful way to use a kettlebell — it is the enemy of elegance. I had no first-hand experience with them until one day, when I was inspired by the sight of one of those men with the quintessential ‘Indian gym body’ (Herculean arms, chicken legs) hoisting them upwards. I pointed to one delicately, and looked at a passing trainer in fear.
“What does this do?” I asked, tentatively. With this, I had broken a six-month-long silence that I had observed in the gym, ever since I realised that saying anything, or even making eye contact with trainers, leads to a barrage of mild (but always discouraging) comments like ‘knees little more apart’, or ‘shoulders little straighter’.
‘MadamcomeIwillshowyouverygoodverysimpleexercisewithit,’ he prattled, because gaps between words are not for the young.
He then proceeded to demonstrate the most awkward hip-thrust I’ve seen — outside of 90s Bollywood song sequences — that swung the kettlebell between my unsteady knees, towards the sky and back. I was assured it was ‘verygoodforhamstring’, and then told to execute a series of three sets.
I swung the kettlebell (performing the imaginatively-named ‘kettlebell swing’) and encountered my ungainly image in the enormous mirrors around me — just the greatest boon when you’re flailing about like an idiot.
Please don’t fly out and crack the glass, please don’t fly out and crack the glass, was a little inward recitation I’d taken to, to ward off any evil gym spirits.
To my left, a chiselled man moved his taut upper frame easily over a pull-up bar, and flashed me a ‘Hey, gym buddy!’ smile that I felt like a fraud for accepting. Behind me, a bored, gorgeous 20-something girl ran on the treadmill at a speed I had only seen in the movies.
I wheezed my way to the end of my second set (no, I’m not being dramatic; I’m just asthmatic) and staggered as I swung the kettlehell to a stop. Okay, one more set, you’re doing it, you’re as cool as these guys, don’t stop midway. I was a better motivational speaker than a kettlebeller.
Pull-Up Guy was looking at me with kinship, and Bored 20 had gotten off her treadmill, taking with her a large chunk of my anxiety.
My spirit renewed, I attacked the kettlebell with fresh fervour. My mind wandered as I knifed through the air. Had I been too hasty?
Maybe a sweet world full of equipment-related possibilities was out there for me. I was excited like a child who’d cleared a level of a video game and now wanted to be King Of The World, and pronto.
In my last pump up, full of smug swagger, in the most poetic justice of endings, I sailed forward and landed with a thwomp sound effect that was Archie comic-esque in its ludicrousness.
My behind, though mercifully covered by grey stretchy cotton, was definitely turning fifty shades of red. While the literal glass in the gym stayed intact, the metaphorical one was certainly shattered.
And naturally, the kettlebell had coolly survived, done a flip, and was sitting prettily to my right.
Behind me, I heard the soft, faraway calls of a cardio machine that reminded me of a home I once loved, and had left.
No kettlebells were harmed in the making of this piece