Couch Olympics

It’s been a few weeks since I last blessed this page with my sweaty wisdom. Eid break came and went like a mutton-fueled hallucination. I spent it feasting like a Roman emperor gone rogue .. on my belly, juggling ginger tea with one hand and karak with the other, all while murmuring sweet nothings to the lover who hasn’t disappointed me in this life: my air conditioner.

Let me tell you something. Among all of mankind’s achievements, from the invention of sliced bread to the slicing of politicians, the true unsung hero is the Air Conditioner. It deserves a Nobel Prize, a monument and its own Friday khutbah.

Summer in Qatar is blinding hot. It’s a personal attack. It’s Satan’s tandoor. I made the mistake of stepping outside once and discovered a new breed of homosapiens among us. People running. Outdoors. At 2 in the afternoon. I stared at them like one stares at someone licking a hot iron. These aren't athletes. Not heroes. Just delusional fitness warriors with a definite death wish.

For me, my fitness regime is simple. I run exactly 14 seconds. From my air-conditioned car to my air-conditioned front door. That’s enough cardio for one lifetime. My gym is my living room. There's no fees, no flexing bros, no music that sounds like a blender in heat. Just me, my sofa, and the AC blasting on 'Siberian Winter' mode.

Running in this heat should be a punishable offence. The road is hotter than a hot plate at a BBQ station. The pavement is melting. So is my hopes of a beach body.

Even the silence outside crackles. You can even smell it .. somewhere, something is always frying. Maybe it’s someone’s dreams. Maybe it’s a falafel left unattended.

Summer workouts should be declared an Olympic sport, but only for the deranged. As for me, I’m proudly going for gold in 'Remote Control Lifting' and 'Strategic Napping.'

I do have fitness goals. I lift spirits. I stretch the truth. I jog... to the fridge.

So, What am I saying? Just stay cool, stay hydrated, and if anyone asks, tell them you're working on your core. The emotional one.

And remember, sweating is for amateurs. And goats.

P.S. Drink water this summer. Or just pretend to, while quietly sipping something stronger. We both know what’s in that 'protein' shaker. Ehm?