Okay, let's get this straight. "Operation: Impress the Crush" – the grand, slightly mortifying pn hatched in a moment of optimistic delusion – was officially underway. Although, in the cold, harsh light of 6 AM, Dipa's internal monologue had already renamed it. Forget impressing anyone; survival felt like the primary objective.
Current working titles included: "Operation: My Legs Have Filed for Divorce," "Operation: Why Does Sweat Feel So Personal?" or the crowd favorite, "Operation: Existential Crisis Before Sunrise." This grim reality settled over the next week, hardening into a routine as predictable as it was painful. Think boot camp, but with more passive-aggressive pigeons and less camoufge.
The park, their designated theatre of suffering, awaited them each dawn. The early morning chill wasn't just refreshing; it felt like a physical smack in the face, nature's own starting pistol signaling another bout of Dipa vs. Her Own Reluctant Body. The dew-soaked grass squelched underfoot, the birds chirped with offensive cheerfulness – it was all part of the grim aesthetic. James, naturally, would already be there, stretching casually, looking annoyingly refreshed, like he'd woken up to birds singing him awake Snow White style.
Dipa, conversely, usually stumbled onto the scene looking like she’d been rudely ejected from a tumble dryer.
"Morning!" James called out, far too bright for this hour. "Ready to embrace the grind?"
"Embrace?" Dipa grumbled, pulling her hoodie tighter. She squinted at him. "James, the only thing I'm embracing right now is the deep, primal urge to go back to bed."
"Can we just... inject the fitness directly into my veins and skip the middleman?"
James just chuckled, tossing her a jump rope. "Nice try. Warm-up p first. Less talking, more shuffling."
"Shuffling is my cardio," Dipa muttered, but she started moving, the park path stretching out like a sentence she wasn't sure she wanted to finish. Battleground engaged.
James, annoyingly consistent and true to his word (seriously, who is this guy?), wasn't about to sprinkle magic fitness dust and call it a day. Nope. He embraced his role as the Maestro of Muscle Misery with gusto. He didn't just assign exercises; he curated a daily symphony of soreness, constantly mixing things up so Dipa's body never knew what hit it.
Just when her legs vaguely tolerated lunges, WHAM! He’d unleash a fresh hell.
Cue the pnk jacks. Mid-jack, Dipa gasped dramatically, "Okay, hold up! Is this even biomechanically sound? Feels like my internal organs are pying bumper cars!"
"Are you sure this isn't just a prank?"
"Core stability and cardio burst," James replied calmly, watching her form. "Keep your hips lower. Less bouncing, more control."
"Easy for you to say, you're not the one jack-knifing!"
And the mountain climbers? Pure evil disguised as exercise. "Seriously, James," she panted, face hovering inches above the damp earth, "are we training for a marathon up K2? Because my lungs are staging a full-blown rebellion!"
"I think I just coughed up a vital organ!"
"Keeps the heart rate up, works everything," he’d counter, annoyingly reasonable. "Drive those knees! Faster!"
His method for increasing reps was pure psychological warfare. Slow. Incremental. Insidious.
