Nayla Mitha

Tag: self-improvement

  • Step One: Don’t Step in Anything

    Step One: Don’t Step in Anything

    What are five simple exercises to do at home?

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    No Equipment Needed, Just a Cat and a Lint Roller

    Fitness influencers swear you only need a living room and commitment. They never mention the fringe benefits that come with a cat.

    1. The Cleanup Lunge

    Throw up. Or the classic: pee landing exactly two centimetres outside the litter box, with the precision of someone who measured. You’ll find it the way everyone does, with a sock, at 6:15 a.m.

    Repeat daily, bonus points if you’re barefoot.

    2. The Shouting Match

    Several times a day, your cat will stand in the hallway and yell at a wall (especially if she’s the “geriatric” kind). You, in turn, will yell at her to stop yelling at the wall:

    “MEOWWWRRRRRRR!!!”

    “What is it?”

    “Meowwwwwww?”

    “Are you hungry?”

    “Meow.”

    “You have a full bowl. I watched you ignore it at 9 p.m.”

    “MEOWWWRRR.”

    “Do you need something? Water? Are you cold? Is it the wall again?”

    She looks at the wall. She looks at you. She looks at the wall again, slower this time, like a cat who is done repeating herself to someone who claims to be “adulting.”

    3. Interval Training (6 to 8 p.m.)

    Entertain your feline friend with a feather wand between 6 and 8 p.m. so she’s too tired to wake you between 2 and 4 a.m. Results may vary.*

    *A legal phrase meaning she’ll be standing on your sternum at 2:47 a.m. anyway, having thoroughly enjoyed the wand and moved on.

    4. Furniture Draping

    If you’re allergic to cats, like me (don’t ask) make sure every surface gets a blanket, and then the blankets get blankets. This targets your lats, your traps, and the muscle group known as “why is my back like this?”

    Add the sneezing and you’ve got a full cardio session.

    5. Documentary Photography

    Finally, take approximately 400 photos of her looking angelic: chin on paws, soft window light, the face of a cat who has never once yelled at drywall. Crop out the blankets, the lint roller, and the suspicious spot near the litter box.

    If this ever goes to trial, the evidence will conclusively prove she’s an angel.

    Extra Credit: Call Your Mom

    Call your mom, a lifelong cat hater, and gush about yours. Send photos. Use the word “baby” unironically.

    She will let you finish, sigh, and say, “These are not the grandkids I asked for.”

    Congratulations, you are now frustrated enough to run a 10k. Cardio complete.

  • My Cholesterol Is Fine. My Evenings Are Not.

    My Cholesterol Is Fine. My Evenings Are Not.

    The real midlife crisis is realizing you don’t know how to buy a mango.

    But let’s start at the beginning. Before I was personally betrayed by a mango, I visited my doctor for a full check-up. It seemed like a good time to find out whether my original parts were still functioning as advertised.

    My cholesterol was a little high, but not high enough for medication. Instead, I received a beautiful pamphlet called “How to Manage Your Cholesterol.”*

    *How to Manage Your Cholesterol: a 16-page document designed to make you feel personally responsible for every piece of cheesecake you’ve accidentally inhaled.

    What the doctor neglected to mention was that this new regime involves a soul-crushing side hustle called “produce management,” with no unsubscribe button in sight.

    Since starting this plan, my days (and nights) have been filled with chopping, peeling, steaming, and more wistful sighs than I care to admit. I barely have time to make it to work, let alone appear employed when I get there.

    To be clear, I fully recognize that produce management is not a bad deal, health-wise. Many people contend with much more.

    But allow me a quick moment to vent about this past week’s worst offender because mangoes are master gaslighters. 

    They sit there, taunting you with their beautiful colours and the confidence of produce that knows something you don’t. You give them a little squeeze every night, pretending you speak “fruit” and hoping they can’t smell fear.

    Then, when you finally muster up the courage to slice into one, it’s secretly rotting on the inside. What’s worse is you immediately remember this never happened at your parents’ house.

    How did they do it?

    Were they undercover mango whisperers?

    I never called my mom for her secret. Partly because I’m an adult… but mostly because I know how that conversation would end.

    She’d listen to my entire mango crisis, pause, and say, “You’re not buying the right ones.”

    I’d ask what the “right ones” were.

    There’d be another longer pause. Then: “You just know.”

    So here I remain… midlife, mildly hypercholesterolemic, and emotionally invested in more types of produce than I care to admit.

    If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen, trying to implement page 7 of the pamphlet: “Assume You’re Doing It Wrong.”