When my throat started to tickle, I thought perhaps it was just being playful. When my ears were blocked up, I actually convinced myself that some water from a swim two weeks ago had moved position and might have moved into my ears, on the last stage of its journey out of my head.
But when I had a coughing fit in the middle of reading Hairy McLeary to my daughter, and she asked me if I had just thrown up in my mouth, I knew that it was serious.
I have the flu.
Okay. I admit it. I could be exaggerating; it might just be a cold. But a very real one.
I am Dramatic Mediterranean Woman. I like to think of myself as the real life version of that Latino chick on Modern Family, but possibly less gorgeous, and armed with a law degree.
Back in the day, I did used to get around town like that. Even get around the office like that. I recall that this was around the time that the Chief Magistrate appealed to the profession to please show some respect to the court and - "this is directed at you, young ladies who batter your eyelids at us from the bar table as if that is going to hypnotise us into overlooking your ineptitude" (if you read between the lines) - please refrain from wearing such low cut tops and skin tight minis and those impossibly high f**k me boots into court, and for goodness sake, can you at least please wear a blouse over your lingerie when you step into the courtroom?
(But PS, they said, feel free to wear such delightful outfits if you go out drinking on Friday night.)
I wish that I was being Dramatic Mediterranean Woman again and exaggerating.
But enough reminiscing. I'm in Fattie Land now. With a head full of goobers.
And I'm not sure if I'm relieved or distressed, excited to sleep a little more, or antsy because I just need to get out and run.
I do have the bug. The running bug. (Of the 5.5km I ran/jogged on Sunday (in 40 minutes), I must have jogged at least 4km of it, as I would have walked for less than 10 minutes.)
But this other bug is very real, and I've decided to acknowledge its existence. I've been the heroine before: you know, the I'll keep soldiering on and pushing myself even though my body needs every ounce of energy to fight this virus inside of me kind of heroine. And many times before, it's taken me weeks, even months, to get better.
Well, I want to get back out there and run through the freezing, dark but not at all forbidding morning, poste haste and so this morning, I chose sleep.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Body says no. Head agrees, temporarily.
This morning, my body said no, and my head didn't talk back.
You might be able to guess that talking back normally comes quite naturally to me.
My husband and I both work, and in similarly demanding jobs. Just as we share earning a living for the family, we share other aspects of our family life and responsibilities. For example, I have one of those wonderful husbands who doesn't 'help me' with raising the children, or 'help me' with the housework; raising the children and doing the housework is our responsibility, and so we share it.
And last night, my husband shared bubs with me, which is to say, it was my night to wake up with her and feed her, and his night to sleep. One of the greatest gifts that my husband has given me for the 12wbt is that on my nights with bubs, he allows me to hand her to him (because, invariably, she's taken advantage of our vulnerable sleepy state in the early hours and has used her bubsy gorgeousness to persuade us to carry her into our bed) so that I can work out.
This morning, after I handed bubs to my husband, I went downstairs and fell asleep on the couch. I know this because at 7.05 in the morning a great big angry man (read: formerly loving husband) was yelling, "Didn't you work out! But you gave me bubs! Never again!". My eldest daughter gently stroked my cheek.
We have so much to learn from our children.
My husband had calmed down by the time I had my shower, and all was forgiven, particularly when I casually walked into the kitchen wearing quite a snappy little outfit that begins with a pair of shiny heels, silky stockings and a pencil skirt. It ends with a knowing smile: despite a few slip ups, I am doing well.
I tried on this pencil skirt 10 days ago. My hips would not cooperate at all with my efforts to wear it. Same hips are now much better behaved, and are clearly slowly being whipped into shape.
The great thing about training in the morning is that if you do something very bad and unnatural like attempt to sleep for more than 6 hours overnight, you can sacrifice something else in your day so that you can reschedule your workout later on. And during this deferred workout, you can punish yourself for being a naughty afternoon exerciser (after all, you've missed out on burning those morning fat cells) by putting some of those 300 pushups in the bank at the end of your training session.
Call me a masochist, but I am really looking forward to a spot of self-flagellation this afternoon.
You might be able to guess that talking back normally comes quite naturally to me.
My husband and I both work, and in similarly demanding jobs. Just as we share earning a living for the family, we share other aspects of our family life and responsibilities. For example, I have one of those wonderful husbands who doesn't 'help me' with raising the children, or 'help me' with the housework; raising the children and doing the housework is our responsibility, and so we share it.
And last night, my husband shared bubs with me, which is to say, it was my night to wake up with her and feed her, and his night to sleep. One of the greatest gifts that my husband has given me for the 12wbt is that on my nights with bubs, he allows me to hand her to him (because, invariably, she's taken advantage of our vulnerable sleepy state in the early hours and has used her bubsy gorgeousness to persuade us to carry her into our bed) so that I can work out.
This morning, after I handed bubs to my husband, I went downstairs and fell asleep on the couch. I know this because at 7.05 in the morning a great big angry man (read: formerly loving husband) was yelling, "Didn't you work out! But you gave me bubs! Never again!". My eldest daughter gently stroked my cheek.
We have so much to learn from our children.
My husband had calmed down by the time I had my shower, and all was forgiven, particularly when I casually walked into the kitchen wearing quite a snappy little outfit that begins with a pair of shiny heels, silky stockings and a pencil skirt. It ends with a knowing smile: despite a few slip ups, I am doing well.
I tried on this pencil skirt 10 days ago. My hips would not cooperate at all with my efforts to wear it. Same hips are now much better behaved, and are clearly slowly being whipped into shape.
The great thing about training in the morning is that if you do something very bad and unnatural like attempt to sleep for more than 6 hours overnight, you can sacrifice something else in your day so that you can reschedule your workout later on. And during this deferred workout, you can punish yourself for being a naughty afternoon exerciser (after all, you've missed out on burning those morning fat cells) by putting some of those 300 pushups in the bank at the end of your training session.
Call me a masochist, but I am really looking forward to a spot of self-flagellation this afternoon.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
"Smashing it"
So, this morning, I ignored the stares of the cool kids (although if I drop the paranoia for a second, they probably didn't give me a second look) and hot footed it to the local gym.
Oh, if only I really had hot footed it. Instead I hot-automobiled it. Right into a ute's back end which was hanging soooo far out of the car park that it was practically pleading with me to smash into it.
I'm the daughter of social workers. I'm very obliging.
Thankfully the only thing hurt in the incident was my bank balance (I could practically feel the insurance excess draining out of my account as I walked around the back of my car to check out the damage).
I got back into the car and parked it perfectly into the very carpark that I was trying to avoid when I completed the fancy manoeuvre into the ute, and did what is my usual response to any kind of stress: I cried (but this time, sans the chocolate fix). Not for too long. The reality of having a 3.5 year old and 7 month old at home has quite the effect on what I previously thought were involuntary teary episodes; I'm the queen of the high quality but superfast cry. Kind of like a cat nap: minimum time, maximum benefit.
Quite unlike exercise, however. No matter how fast I run, 5 or 10 minutes is never going to cut it.
Which is why I got out of the car, walked up the stairs, into the gym and straight onto a torture machine.
And there (and on a second likewise sadistic contraption), I smashed it for the second time today, and all before 7am!
And I finally did the time trial (I told you I wasn't one of those organised people): 1 kilometre in 7.5 minutes. There was no way I could have done that 10 days ago. I was a strictly 30-second-jog person way back then.
Wow, aren't online calculators useful. That would be 8 kilometres an hour. Big catch, I appreciate: there is no way that I could have kept that up for an hour. But let's not dwell on the fine print. I'm definitely getting fitter.
What a crazy concept this is that these health and fitness people share: that if you eat better and exercise more, you will get fitter. And you'll lose weight! Remarkable.
That's the thing that has struck me this last week. I've obviously not been engaged with myself or with reality: I've been in a chocolate-and-general-carby-crap coma. Well, I've snapped out, and things are much clearer now, thank you (even if my back windscreen wasn't!)
Oh, if only I really had hot footed it. Instead I hot-automobiled it. Right into a ute's back end which was hanging soooo far out of the car park that it was practically pleading with me to smash into it.
I'm the daughter of social workers. I'm very obliging.
Thankfully the only thing hurt in the incident was my bank balance (I could practically feel the insurance excess draining out of my account as I walked around the back of my car to check out the damage).
I got back into the car and parked it perfectly into the very carpark that I was trying to avoid when I completed the fancy manoeuvre into the ute, and did what is my usual response to any kind of stress: I cried (but this time, sans the chocolate fix). Not for too long. The reality of having a 3.5 year old and 7 month old at home has quite the effect on what I previously thought were involuntary teary episodes; I'm the queen of the high quality but superfast cry. Kind of like a cat nap: minimum time, maximum benefit.
Quite unlike exercise, however. No matter how fast I run, 5 or 10 minutes is never going to cut it.
Which is why I got out of the car, walked up the stairs, into the gym and straight onto a torture machine.
And there (and on a second likewise sadistic contraption), I smashed it for the second time today, and all before 7am!
And I finally did the time trial (I told you I wasn't one of those organised people): 1 kilometre in 7.5 minutes. There was no way I could have done that 10 days ago. I was a strictly 30-second-jog person way back then.
Wow, aren't online calculators useful. That would be 8 kilometres an hour. Big catch, I appreciate: there is no way that I could have kept that up for an hour. But let's not dwell on the fine print. I'm definitely getting fitter.
What a crazy concept this is that these health and fitness people share: that if you eat better and exercise more, you will get fitter. And you'll lose weight! Remarkable.
That's the thing that has struck me this last week. I've obviously not been engaged with myself or with reality: I've been in a chocolate-and-general-carby-crap coma. Well, I've snapped out, and things are much clearer now, thank you (even if my back windscreen wasn't!)
I am smarter than a donut
As I was (finally) watching the Mish Vid on cravings, I started to wonder what all this fuss is about food.
I mean, it's just molecules of stuff, some yummy, some yucky, some healthy, some heartburn material . . . you get the drift. But it's just foreign material that exists in space, and every day, we all select a teeny tiny portion (yes, even a 2 litre tub of Maggie Beer's best icecream barely registers as a microscopic dot compared to the whole entire universe) of that material that we call 'food' to pop into our mouths.
As a result, we can function as human beings.
But depending upon whether this food stuff is good or evil, it performs a magic act on our insides (like making our eyes bright, our skin clear and our arteries clutter-free), or alternatively, curses us with thunder thighs and jelly bellies.
So why do we eat the donuts? Are they possibly not inanimate objects at all, but baddies conspiring to make us fat?
Why don't we just eat pineapple instead?
I love myself too much to let a donut outsmart me. I will ingest those forces of evil no more. I choose to only pick out the best that the universe has to offer into my (thankfully changing, albeit slowly!) body.
I'm tempted to write, 'My Body is my Temple' but that's quite wrong on so many levels and that's a conversation better had over a few drinks (I'm thinking dry martini - minimum calories, maximum punch) than a blog.
All that need be said is that I am smarter than a donut.
I mean, it's just molecules of stuff, some yummy, some yucky, some healthy, some heartburn material . . . you get the drift. But it's just foreign material that exists in space, and every day, we all select a teeny tiny portion (yes, even a 2 litre tub of Maggie Beer's best icecream barely registers as a microscopic dot compared to the whole entire universe) of that material that we call 'food' to pop into our mouths.
As a result, we can function as human beings.
But depending upon whether this food stuff is good or evil, it performs a magic act on our insides (like making our eyes bright, our skin clear and our arteries clutter-free), or alternatively, curses us with thunder thighs and jelly bellies.
So why do we eat the donuts? Are they possibly not inanimate objects at all, but baddies conspiring to make us fat?
Why don't we just eat pineapple instead?
I love myself too much to let a donut outsmart me. I will ingest those forces of evil no more. I choose to only pick out the best that the universe has to offer into my (thankfully changing, albeit slowly!) body.
I'm tempted to write, 'My Body is my Temple' but that's quite wrong on so many levels and that's a conversation better had over a few drinks (I'm thinking dry martini - minimum calories, maximum punch) than a blog.
All that need be said is that I am smarter than a donut.
Monday, May 20, 2013
The Birthday Party
Slim and healthy people do not eat their own weight in pies, frankfurters, birthday cake and chocolate crackles. Not even as a coping mechanism in the face of 30 preschoolers on a hyperactive sugar high.
If only I had told myself this truth before I reached for the sweets. Admittedly, I did remarkably well avoiding alcohol and instead sipping water, but deep inside I was thinking, "if I don't eat the pies and I don't drink the giggly lolly water, I can eat cake!!!!".
Without wanting to sound like a disciple, Michelle is right. Every action has a thought behind it. I knew precisely what I was doing when I suggested that my daughter have a lovely little slice of cheesecake. And oh, look, they're cutting that pretty pink birthday cake - well, we can't go without having a piece of that.
Really? Is that a rule? Would we be sent to the naughty corner (or, worse than that, be forced to lie on the trampoline while abovementioned tiny terrors jumped on us and pulled our hair . . . oh no, wait, that did actually happen).
Truth be told, I'm not super mad at myself. I did much better than I normally would. I only slipped up on having a bit of cake, and even then, I only ate a little.
If anything, I'm a bit disappointed that I blew those calories and didn't really enjoy it. All of a sudden, sweets just don't really rock my world anymore. For some crazy reason, those little sugary compounds and their creamy friends no longer have a positive effect on my emotional well being. And eating a slice of chocolate cake doesn't even come close to being a spiritual experience.
Incidentally, what is it with this chocolate fixation? I'm beginning to think that it's only because we women talk about being chocoholics so much that we are actually chocoholics.
So, it's true: think, and you will do.
So, this morning, I opted for a positive thought. I had this idea that I would jog much more of my jog/walk than ever before. I had this idea that after my fifth set of 90 seconds of jogging, I would just keep on jogging. And I did. And then I did another few sets, and on the last of those, I jogged some more. Even ran for a bit. Only my dinky achilles prevented me from tearing up the pavement some more.
I'm not proud of my birthday cake incident. But I am very pleased with myself that I literally ran away from it (and possibly ran it off) this morning, putting it way, way behind me. And I'm not looking back.
If only I had told myself this truth before I reached for the sweets. Admittedly, I did remarkably well avoiding alcohol and instead sipping water, but deep inside I was thinking, "if I don't eat the pies and I don't drink the giggly lolly water, I can eat cake!!!!".
Without wanting to sound like a disciple, Michelle is right. Every action has a thought behind it. I knew precisely what I was doing when I suggested that my daughter have a lovely little slice of cheesecake. And oh, look, they're cutting that pretty pink birthday cake - well, we can't go without having a piece of that.
Really? Is that a rule? Would we be sent to the naughty corner (or, worse than that, be forced to lie on the trampoline while abovementioned tiny terrors jumped on us and pulled our hair . . . oh no, wait, that did actually happen).
Truth be told, I'm not super mad at myself. I did much better than I normally would. I only slipped up on having a bit of cake, and even then, I only ate a little.
If anything, I'm a bit disappointed that I blew those calories and didn't really enjoy it. All of a sudden, sweets just don't really rock my world anymore. For some crazy reason, those little sugary compounds and their creamy friends no longer have a positive effect on my emotional well being. And eating a slice of chocolate cake doesn't even come close to being a spiritual experience.
Incidentally, what is it with this chocolate fixation? I'm beginning to think that it's only because we women talk about being chocoholics so much that we are actually chocoholics.
So, it's true: think, and you will do.
So, this morning, I opted for a positive thought. I had this idea that I would jog much more of my jog/walk than ever before. I had this idea that after my fifth set of 90 seconds of jogging, I would just keep on jogging. And I did. And then I did another few sets, and on the last of those, I jogged some more. Even ran for a bit. Only my dinky achilles prevented me from tearing up the pavement some more.
I'm not proud of my birthday cake incident. But I am very pleased with myself that I literally ran away from it (and possibly ran it off) this morning, putting it way, way behind me. And I'm not looking back.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
The Tim Tam
Something happened on Day 1 that has been bugging me all week.
It involved a Tim Tam.
I went along to a coffee morning for parents at my daughter's preschool. It's C's first term there, and so I didn't know anyone. I was on the lookout for the mother of a particular boy, S, because C had told me that he "hugged me so tight that my bones hurt" ("Why darling?" "Because I love him!" But of course.).
I asked around, and soon someone pointed out S's mother. She honed in and swooped towards me, wielding a fresh pack of Tim Tams.
She thrust them forward, under my nose. "Tim Tam?"
As if I needed to be told what they were.
"Oh, yes please!", and I daintily picked one out and gave her a big smile.
I wonder if, immediately after that, my face communicated the horror I felt. What on earth had I done? Oh dear God, it's a Tim Tam, it's in my hand, and the woman armed with a whole pack of the freaking little turds - possibly the future mother-in-law of my 3 year old daughter - is staring at me with a huge grin on her face.
And she's waiting for me to eat it.
My goodness she's skinny. I bet you she doesn't eat these things. She just inflicts them on fatties like me because she's read somewhere that that's how to make friends with us.
I couldn't just hold on to it; you know how those things melt (you know you do). I couldn't even put it in my handbag; it would melt in there, but I wouldn't care; it's just that it seemed that everyone's eyes were on me.
So I ate a Tim Tam. On Day 1. Less than 3 hours after I had so courageously walked and jogged around my neighbourhood in the rain (oh, how the mighty fall!).
The problem, I think, is that I wasn't yet fully programmed. I'm still not fully programmed. But the mindset is on its way to become hard-wired in my brain. But it's that instant that you reach out for the Tim Tam when you should instead say, "Thanks, that's really nice of you, but no thanks (and now, can we talk about our children? I'm not sure if my girl is ready for commitment yet; has S mentioned anything to you?").
I'm kind of glad that it happened though. I'm glad because I was positively mortified when I realised what had happened. That's something in itself. I used to just feel a few seconds of guilt and then move on.
Next time someone offers me something very, very bad - no matter how well intentioned they are - I'm just going to think of that little brown turd, and say no, very nicely.
And go back to dreaming of how fabulous and fit I am going to be at forty, and how I am going to rock that dress.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
12WBT - Day 4 - It's going to be ok
Yes, the sky might be falling, but it's going to be ok.
I know this, because I have survived over 3 days of the 12wbt without imploding, exploding or collapsing wherever I happened to be and curling up in the foetal position until someone fed me a lemon tart.
And this morning, something wonderful happened. The (incidentally, tall, slim and radiant) chick (let's just call her Amazon Woman) who runs the cafe where I have been going for the last couple of years for my morning skim-milk-flat-white said, "Thanks gorgeous girl" as I said goodbye on my way out. For the first time, ever.
This caused me to wonder: why all of a sudden am I a Gorgeous Girl?
Could it be the 2.2 kilograms that I have lost in the last week? No, I don't think so. When you're this big, people don't notice that you're a New Improved You until 5 or 10 kilograms at least, I imagine.
I think that it could just be that I walked a little taller (possibly pride sneaking in already?), I smiled a little more, and rather than replying, "Oh, I'm sooo tired!" when Amazon Woman practically roared her usual "How aaaare you?!" greeting, I sang back, "Great! How are you!".
I'm pretty sure that I noticed Amazon Woman blink. That's her version of surprise.
And then I kept on smiling and saying nice, happy things, until I got out of there and wondered what the hell had happened to me.
Oh. I get it. Exercising. Eating healthy portions of healthy food. Having an hour to clear my head and then fill it with positive thoughts like how I'm going to rock that dress at my fortieth. That's how I'm already starting to give off that Gorgeous Girl vibe.
I know this, because I have survived over 3 days of the 12wbt without imploding, exploding or collapsing wherever I happened to be and curling up in the foetal position until someone fed me a lemon tart.
And this morning, something wonderful happened. The (incidentally, tall, slim and radiant) chick (let's just call her Amazon Woman) who runs the cafe where I have been going for the last couple of years for my morning skim-milk-flat-white said, "Thanks gorgeous girl" as I said goodbye on my way out. For the first time, ever.
This caused me to wonder: why all of a sudden am I a Gorgeous Girl?
Could it be the 2.2 kilograms that I have lost in the last week? No, I don't think so. When you're this big, people don't notice that you're a New Improved You until 5 or 10 kilograms at least, I imagine.
I think that it could just be that I walked a little taller (possibly pride sneaking in already?), I smiled a little more, and rather than replying, "Oh, I'm sooo tired!" when Amazon Woman practically roared her usual "How aaaare you?!" greeting, I sang back, "Great! How are you!".
I'm pretty sure that I noticed Amazon Woman blink. That's her version of surprise.
And then I kept on smiling and saying nice, happy things, until I got out of there and wondered what the hell had happened to me.
Oh. I get it. Exercising. Eating healthy portions of healthy food. Having an hour to clear my head and then fill it with positive thoughts like how I'm going to rock that dress at my fortieth. That's how I'm already starting to give off that Gorgeous Girl vibe.
Monday, May 13, 2013
12WBT - Day 1 - The Sky Is Falling
At approximately 6.10am this morning, my lovely 6 month old, chubby cheeked and oh! so cuddly, ample thighed daughter (no resemblance - clearly takes after her father) woke me by gently caressing my face and cooing something that sounded more than remotely like babytalk for "I love you", which I am sure is exactly what she meant.
I looked down at her and smiled and told her I loved her, too. More heart-melting babytalk in response.
Ah, perfect.
No, this was the WORST POSSIBLE THING THAT COULD HAVE HAPPENED.
I had reached over to my 'smartphone'. So smart that it failed to wake me at 5.30am. I studied it. Very hard (it takes a while without coffee). Oh. 5.30 PM. Human input error.
"Love, it's 6.10am. Please take Bubs."
"You can't go out. It's raining".
"No it's not."
"Well you're too late. Go tomorrow."
"Nooooooooo!" I had to think fast. "I'll go for a half an hour".
I may have thrown the baby at my husband as I ran out of the bedroom. I poured myself into my trackies (don't tell me that I'm the only fattie who refuses to buy fat person clothes) and burnt approximately 57 calories squeezing and manipulating my G cups (not for your titillation, people; we all know that there comes a point where it's more Rocky Horror than porn) into my sports bra, which, as those similarly endowed would know, was worn over my regular made-of-actual-cement chastity-bra. Successfully put on T-shirt (again, memories of a slender yester-year) and sneakers (likewise very old, but remarkably pristine in condition). Then, I walked out the door.
I'm trying to celebrate the little things. So it's important that I walked out the door, ok?
My first challenge was to unlock the gates. We're currently living with my parents. I'm 39. So my parents are old people. In the last month or so that I have lived with my parents, I have not found a single cliche about old people not to ring true. Testimony to this is that it took me a full ten minutes to escape from my own parents house, as it involved unlocking several gates and heaving them open (honestly: surely at least another 57 calories burned).
Having found freedom from Alcatraz, I swam for my life. That is really how it felt, trying to walk briskly in the downpour. Yes, it had resumed raining. Quite hard, really.
Then something unusual happened. I started to run. Or fat people's version of running, anyway, which is how I used to run even when I was slim, which is to say, I jogged and tried not to look too silly despite not really knowing what to do with my hands. I did the 30 second / 1.30 minute thing (approximately, of course; you'll learn that I'm not one of Those Organised People). After doing it five times, I did it twice more. Uphill.
It felt good.
I got to the top of the hill, which is, in my parents' neighbourhood, a main road. So I thought I may as well run a little more, after all, it was downhill. Weeeeee, I was flying, I was flying! I WAS FLYING!
Oh, that was hard and rather sudden. I was on my arse. Imagine how skinny people must feel when they land hard on their arse bones, without all that nice cushioning, I thought to myself. But then, they wouldn't land so hard, because they're lighter, like feathers, and so they'd kind of float to Mother Earth.
Note to self: avoid slippery manhole thingies at least until you can flap your fairy wings and gracefully float over them.
Thankfully, people in this neighbourhood are all slack and, to my surprise, I had not been joined by 1000s of 12wbt'ers. There might have been one other of us, but I couldn't be sure. He looked like he was in his own private world of pain, and so it didn't matter. And other than him, it was just me and a few cars.
The rest of the walk (there were no more overeager attempts to get a gold star in running on the beginner lose-that-lard program) was quite uneventful, with each minute distinguishable from the last only in terms of whether it rained like the sky was falling in or merely like the clouds were going to crush me.
I arrived home to find hubby very angry indeed. "You said half an hour! It's 7.20am!"
"Oh, is it?". I was in that buoyant state of happiness that can only come with exercise. "Here Bubs, let's have a cuddle".
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