I am not a fan of exercise. I am not a fan of diets. I am what ever the opposite is of a fan.
I am a fan of inactivity, wine drinking, chocolate eating and time reading my book.
Unfortunately none of the things I enjoy contribute to weight loss. They all however aid the inevitable spread of my arse and thighs, and also add to the image I see of my stomach resting on my upper thighs when I go to the toilet.
I should really spare you that image, but my bathroom has a wall length mirror, so the image is reflected back to me in high density detail every morning and night. So, what ever you are picturing is not as bad as what I need to endure.
The most alarming way to scare yourself in to “doing something” is to pop along to a retail store, pick out a few things, then go into one of their change rooms and shed all your clothes and stand there in your underwear and gaze at your reflection.
If you are lucky (like me) you will be wearing one of your bras that do not fit well, so it will eat red marks into your shoulders. The cup will not fit, and your breasts will be squished into an unusual shape not unlike those made by magicians at children’s parties who make balloon animals. None of it attractive, all of it on the “this blows” scale.
There I stand in my badly fitting bra, my knickers (neither of which match, both of which should have been thrown away months ago). My granny pants will undoubtedly cling in the wrong place. Because the planet likes balance, hang loose in all the wrong place, and in no way be complementary.
Above my head is a flickering light which does a super job of making my white flabby skin, appear a sickly yellow, blobby, blotchy, with hills and dales of cellulite. My thighs look like something that comes out of an old custard container circa 1986.
I have back fat. I have front fat. My stomach sort of hangs over my bikini area. The entire image is bad. Oh so very bad. OMG how did this happen BAD. If I was feeling a semblance of happiness thinking that retail therapy was going to pep me up, it all disappears in the mist that is the retail changing rooms.
Whilst my eyeballs are being assaulted by the vision of me, in three variations — I need to lean over and try on a pair of jeans or a shirt.
They never fit, because I suffer from the symptoms of delusion, which include always-taking-sizes-to-the-change-room-I-know-won’t-fit-but-am-too-mortfied-to-take-the-bigger-and-more-correct-size. All of this adds up to a slightly less than satisfactory retail experience.
I usually march out the store, and go and treat myself to a large piece of cake somewhere. It is difficult to be unhappy when you are gorging on chocolate cake! Guilt ridden after, but at the time, exquisite joy.
Sometimes I just eat the cake, and do not bother even going to the store.
I blame my issues on the buyers and their ridiculous size curves, the horrific design of the change rooms, and also the “skinny jean” fad that appears to have crept in to everything.
Notice I do not blame my fat arse for lying on the couch and eating cake, nope I am a victim over here.
That being said, and one too many changing room experiences later, I decided to get off the couch and go and run around a field at 6am.
In the morning. During Winter.
I have made the renewed acquaintance of Adventure Boot Camp.
It is uneasy relationship. We both realise the relationship is one filled with anger and loathing (from my side) – I think from ABC’s side it is filled with unrequited love and devotion.
I have mentally committed to go three times a week, so that sees Monday, Wednesday and Friday with me squeezing my rather large rear into a pair of clingy lycra pants, and meeting up with a few other demented people as we spend an hour being subjected to all sorts of torture.
I have to leave home at about 05h40 to get there in time. I do not play well with others in the morning, so I am sulky and morose the entire time. I am not really in line to win the “most bubbly” camper.
Trust me I am not filled with the joy of endorphins at any time. Before. During. Nor after.
This is week 2. I gave up on my “almost standard” McDonald’s egg mcmuffin and sausage breakfast this morning, and opted instead for a deliciou,s yet strangely less satisfying, Herbalife Chocolate Shake.
Because I had eaten an entire bag of Chuckles yesterday, and two hefty chunks of chocolate cake, I thought I would do an hour run/walk/shuffle in addition once I dropped the kids at school – a sort of penance for my calorie-gorging behaviour.
I sit here with my hamstring trying to leave my body via my groin. I am in all sorts of pain and all I can keep thinking is how I can get out of this on Wednesday.
This morning a mom at Isabelle’s school said “I really admire you that you have time to go to gym … “
Part of me was elated that for some reason she managed to get the image of an “active person” from my attire, and the other part of me wanted to explain the fact that I had been up since before the sparrow farted to pull this little number off, but I decided to opt for smiling and nodding.