It’s probably no surprise that the rate my arse spreading across this chair is in direct proportion to the time I am sitting on this computer.
At 34, it’s starting to hit home that age is not going to be my friend nor will I be escaping it.
I’ve, I guess always been one of the lucky ones.
Apart from my obsession with the gym and aerobics in year 11 and 12 where I got so hooked I would attend 2 lessons a day in my bright orange Cheetah g-string leotard – gag - ride my bike everywhere and eat only corn and peas, I’ve never been all that into keeping fit.
Mind you, I’d get home from school or work and more than likely eat half the container of lasagne mum had prepared. I was like a bulimic who didn’t hurl afterwards – redundant. I don’t think I was super sharp at this point in my life.
Generally from then on in, once I got comfortable with myself I was always a reasonable size,
rarely exercised, ate whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted and would fit into my jeans every time winter rolled around. Even after 3 kids. Not this time. There’s probably a lot of “suck shit bitch” going on at this point.
We don’t own scales but I do have this thing called common sense and I can tell everything is getting tighter. Around my arse, around my stomach (donut gut) and most disturbingly my arms. Bingo wings are now my reality. This has been a somewhat fast progression.
The thing is I know I’m not interested in going to a gym. Firstly because I have zero time to do this. Secondly they are a rort. Thirdly, well I don’t have a thirdly but I think I gymed myself out at 18. I could no more flail around on a reebok aerobics steps than enjoy watching an Anthony Robbins seminar.
I have discovered the walk-run – thanks Lana. I think there is a more technical name, but basically you walk more than you run. Run in short bursts, get’s the heart going. Increase ratio as you do more and bingo, fitness and weight loss. I intend to start this properly – next week.
More importantly is food. And the fact that I eat the wrong stuff. I have never eaten well. It’s never mattered before. Working next to the best Chinese and Fish and Chips on the Gold Coast has not helped matters nor has the fact that I have discovered I like to cook and then eat said cooking.
I know I don’t have the will power to go on a Tony Ferguson style diet (hate shakes) and would last 1 week before I drove through Maccas for a McFeast. So thinking I just need to modify.
The damage I have done to my skin is also going to present itself from now on in.
Living on the Gold Coast all of my life, I don’t think I started to wear sunscreen until in my 20’s. I can’t count the amount of times I had sunburn that resulted in us having competitions of who could peel the largest layer or 2nd degree burnt skin of our backs.
When I hit my teens and we were at the beach every day, not only did we not wear sunscreen, we tried to enhance our tan with baby oil and olive oil. What in the fuck were we thinking? Then again there was Al the suntan man who sprayed on oil for a living in Surfers Paradise, so we knew no better – our only defence.
Further to that, I have never had anything waxed, plucked, sucked or injected. I had my first pedicure at age 31. I have only had one set of false nails at my year 12 formal which I went about setting on fire with a lighter during the night of drunken stupidness. Grey hairs sprout in my hair more often than I shower and I can only imagine I will one day give in and give up and be one of those weird mums’s who only 37 picking up her kids looking like a hobo.
A lot of my friends are already 40 and they look freaking amazing.
Living on the Gold Coast, the illusion is everyone is plastic, has fake norks, tummy tucks, bronzed skin, platinum hair and Botox. To some that is the simple truth.
I get now why people go to these extremes, they don’t want to age. Whereas I will look like distressed leather bag when I hit 50, a lot of other women will have had the work done to look more like a shiny Louis Vuitton. I’m cool with that. Hope my husband is. If not, I guess I’ll either come home to a red sports car in the garage or 23 year old smoko chick draped around him one day.
Anyway time to get off this chair, run 10 km’s and eat a grapefruit. Like hell, I’m just going to refill my coffee cup.