The Surprise Factor

I went back to my knitting group this morning and was extremely and pleasantly surprised to realise that my legs are not as fat as I think they are. I should thank a combination of Hypoxi, horsey and exercise bike for this and you would be excused to think I am displaying a flash of false modesty here. Really, I am not. I always think of my legs as a bit chunky and because I do not have a full-length mirror at home, every time I catch a glimpse of them, I always think they are somebody else's or the mirror is a lengthening one (something they really ought to consider in changing rooms the world over).

The epiphany took place thanks to Cellini, from Rowan's Mag 44:



Many people have commented on Ravelry that this is one of those dreadful preggo-styles that can gift its wearer with a good twenty pounds without even trying hard. I am glad to say I can disagree. At my local yarn store, there is a lovely Cellini on display, in a natural shade. I tried it on today and that is when I realised that it does not pregnarise the wearer and that the wearer today had pretty decent legs.

If that is the case, I can tell you it's been a long slog. Thinking back on my fitness misadventures, I cannot quite recall the moment when a sense of awareness descended upon me; yet, it must have happened at some point in my very early days for, even as a young child, I already displayed multiple flags that unequivocally marked me as one of those kids whose entire family, all the way back to the Middle Ages, must have lacked the Gym Gene. I insisted on volley-ball, intoxicated as I was by Japanese manga cartoons featuring improbable heroines gifted with improbable high-jumps, improbable strength, improbable stamina and improbably Westernised looks.

My own version of Mimi or Mila was secretly rehearsed with a limp helium balloon against one of my bedroom walls. Fast-forward to the school halls where we used to practise and there I was, a tall and self-conscious piglet, falling over and back onto my already vast backside, the ball imprinted on my forehead like a tortoise’s shell, my glasses pressed hard onto my nose and only miraculously unshattered.

These days I stick to what I really want to do (riding), but when the going gets tough on the horses, there may be spells when the exercise bike replaces the hooves and I must confess I do not like these spells one little bit. For a start, it is boring. Boring to hell. Boring like I never knew exercise could be boring. Secondly, if you're at all like me, you'll want to really push it and really pushing it on the bike means a full hour on mountain settings. The only remotely pleasing moment is when I step off the damn thing, grunting and gasping, clasping my chest as I peer at the display that blinks 830 calories burnt, 20.1 Km, 60 minutes. Hard as it is, I may have to try and conjure up images of my legs every time I run through mental excuses in order to skip (skip the bike of course, I cannot imagine skipping without falling to the floor in a tangle).

The Nut Cracker

Some years ago, I read in British Glamour that Kylie Minogue could crack walnuts with her bum cheeks. A blend of perplexity and amusement stirred inside of me as I slammed the tea on the table and re-read her personal trainer’s statement through stained pages. Was he joking? Was he serious? I could not tell. Was it even humanly possible to crack nuts with one’s own bum cheeks? Would that apply to all nuts? I could only presume that really small nuts, paradoxically, presented more of a challenge.

I pondered on this last point for a long time, lips creased into a smiling grimace crowned by a forehead scrunched up hard, trying to picture this cracking. I proceeded to my bedroom, pulled my dress up and strained my neck, looking down and sideways at my own bum. Wrapped up in reasonably expensive black lace, I was not looking at two perfectly formed little peaches, inviting, juicy and deserving of those knickers. The knickers were defaced by their own contents, more kitchen foil strained over over-sized turkey than Agent Provocateur tease adorning the wonders of nature.

Two gigantic pomegranates past their best stretched the lace to its maximum give, every dip and dimply curve cruelly highlighted by the overhead light I since got rid of. I turned around some more and started clenching and releasing my bumcheeks, clench, release, clench, release, over and over. I could feel the burning pull from deep inside my back-side but the reflection did not seem to budge despite the great effort. At a push, at a very strong push, I could barely detect the lace collapsing in places as some more deep dimples embroidered my skin, like large, uneven waves on a vast, corrugated sea. I stopped and stared, holding the squeeze and then releasing it once more. Was I really in such denial as to think that good underwear alone could turn me from enormously bottomed Venus De Milo cast-off into dinky and tasty, à la Dita Von Teese? I rearranged my dress as Laura Ashley intended and returned to the kitchen.

Up until then, I had always been aware of my very undesirable backside. Yet, it is thanks to that seminal article that I am now grateful it is behind me, so that I never ever run the risk of catching another glimpse of it. It was evident then, as it is now, that this bum was no nutcracker, it was a dog’s bed. Like a favourite cushion, it was lucky to get the occasional plump-up, usually with a body brush and hurriedly under the shower, only to be squashed back into submission within minutes. My bum was a built-in Linus’s blanket; if there were any muscles in there, they had been flattened into threadbare submission by a lifetime of sedentary activities.

Merv has been out of action for two months. I keep slobbing it on the hateful exercise bike. I haven’t been near the pink pants. My birthday is fast approaching. Enters the artillery.

Oh pants...!

Unwanted weight approaches slowly yet determined from afar, like debt or a pushy relative on Christmas Eve. It bursts into your life with that same SURPRISE factor and elicits the same eye-narrowing scepticism of the credit card bill and of the relative. But while you can scan transactions for fraud or you can try and slam the door in the face of the scrounger, resisting the surprise, the shock and the self-loathing that follow weight gain is a much harder, if not completely impossible, task to muster. I know that while I have successfully identified fraud and I have successfully refuted scroungers, I have also stood in front of the mirror, mouth aghast, forehead scrunched up, hands pulling hard against two wretched bits of fabric that would just not come together. I use one particular pair of trousers as my benchmark for fatness and perhaps this itself sets me up for failure.



As every woman knows, there is much more levee in a skirt than in a pair of pants, but this is exactly why success resounds so much louder when the zipper pulls up with ease on the drainpipes, rather than on the pencil. I can guarantee that within ten days my currently slightly tight narrow skirt will fit like it did a few months back. The silk trousers are an entirely different challenge. I bought these bits of fabulousness in early 2002, just before my first trip to New York. I can leaf through old pics and see myself wearing them everywhere. The Empire State Building, Fifth Avenue, the plane, the Waldorf. I inspect my face for signs of fat; it surely did look rounder then. Could it be that now I am approaching 30 I simply look haggard in the face and fat in the ass? Is that the difference between early and late twenties? I also recall wearing them on the way to work, standing on the Farringdon platform, denim jacket on top, huge fringed John Galliano wrap carefully thrown on my shoulders (there is no such thing as effortlessly done dahhhlin’, remember that). I recall wearing them for lunch with a friend in early 2006 and catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. They were loose, loose like they had never been before. At the time I was returning to work on a part-time basis, which allowed for twenty hours of exercise to take place religiously, Monday to Friday, at my local fitness centre. I was trying to strengthen my back, what I got into the bargain was not a weight loss, as testified by the scales receipts that insist on reading the same over a period of three months, but a de-puffing and toning up that I have not experienced since. And fact is, I want it back.

Friends are currently doing liquid diets, the sort that deflate you before you go on holiday, and that move you back to the land of the fatties as soon as you stop the shakes and go back to solids. Much as I’d love to be a stick, I love solid food more. I cannot exercise twenty (or more) hours per week because I cannot fit so much into my schedule any longer. I am up early to go to the office, not to walk to David Lloyd for a workout. When I return in the evening, I am too hungry to contemplate a 3-hour sweat-out. In fact, the thought of it makes me queasy. And of course Merv having been off the radar for the past three weeks hasn’t helped either. One thing is to potter around him and quite another to go for a two-hour trotting hack. Even then, I recently noticed that I do not get as tired (read, as pumped up) any longer, probably because the work on the exercise bike with a view to increase my horsey stamina has started to pay off. And yes the exercise bike. I cannot think of anything more boring than a stationary bike (lie, I can, Gangs of New York), yet it has proved invaluable at a time when Merv was lame and I really wanted a proper sweat-out. However, I have the peculiar habit of pedalling with a Nigella or Jamie DVD playing in the Mac and I can tell you that if this helps the workout to fly by (or very nearly), it most certainly does not help its aftermath.

So I resolved to cut-back with a low-fat diet devoid of just about everything. I began last night by preparing a wrap with paprika flageolet beans and Philadelphia extra light. I also threw a low-fat, low-calorie soya dessert into the bag and already felt thinner just by placing it in the fridge ready to go this morning. Except I drove to work and left it at home. Since I was in extra early, and was so very angry for having forgotten the food, I had a grande (skinny) caramel macchiato at Starbee. Believe it or not, even a cup the size of a vase laced up with caramel sauce only has 120 calories provided you ask for skimmed milk. I am beginning to wonder whether Starbee at large may be part of the problem. Since I started work at this client, with a Starbee in the building, I seem to have gotten… well… fatter. I hate even typing that. I plead on here, right now, to stop the vicious circle. I will prepare my own food at home, I will remember to take it with me, I will stop the snacking at 3 pm and I will reduce the number of Starbees (to… maybe… just xx a day). And I will fit back into those bastard pants if that’s the last thing I do before my birthday in September.

The Short Of It

Oh holy Jesus. It's Tuesday tomorrow and I suppose that is the only good thing about it. It will feel like Monday but it will already be Tuesday. I have been off work for the past few days and it has been great. In fact, great is a great understatement. I have been intellectually and physically active and I feel fabulous for it. The thought of getting into the car tomorrow morning to mindlessly drive somewhere I have little reason to be is, quite frankly, mind-numbing. To think that I will have to sit at my desk, struggling to concentrate on the ins-and-outs of a piece of code that is so bugged it needs disinfestation makes me physically sick. I had such a fantastic time as of late; reading, writing, taking pictures, making plans, expanding my intellectual horizons. Tomorrow I will have to sit down for nine hours of mental martyrdom when I could be home doing something of value instead. Such as beginning a diet. I thought I did today, and sprinkled a long walk on it as well, but then I think I may have spoilt it all with tea and biscuits. There's always tomorrow... If all else fails, and it will, my currently un-zippable Escada pants should give me something interesting to focus on.