Saturday 19 May 2012

Hip, Hip, Horror - When heels become a weighty issue

I seem to be storing fat deposits, which is odd - since I am not pregnant.

And so I went off to TK Maxx in a bid to rid myself of the horror of it all by the purchase of new shoes.







Whilst new shoes were purchased, they did little to alleviate the horror of having flesh that is ....fleshy.


I have never worried about my weight and even now, what the scales say- should I stand on them, doesn't bother me in the slightest. But fleshy bits are simply too much to deal with. When I stood in the changing rooms and tried on my normal size 6 jeans, I looked like a someone had tried to squeeze a water snake though and empty loo roll. Just to confirm my worst fears, I slapped my bottom and I saw movement.

That caused the kind of reaction that TK Maxx did very well out of.

Yet for the first time ever, I actually look female, with proper hips and a waist - but only from a distance. Close up and I'd be concerned that should you stand next to me in a typhoon, you may be physically harmed.  To add to my own revulsion and confirm the horror of the situation, I stuck my fingers into the flesh at the back of my waist and lost sight of my finger nail.

This is a new one for me. I have never put on sufficient weight to cause concern, never dieted - but this weight gain would take a level of acceptance that I am not ready to deal with. When I stand straight I want to hear a snapping sound, not an aftershock.

So there was only one sensible reaction and it was not buying larger clothes. It was the purchase of  an exceptionally tight dress and an exercise device that judging by the picture of the man on the front, is rather good at causing bodily tautness.

I shall hang the dress in the snug as an incentive to stomach crunch my way back to stick instectdom. It will be an incentive, since I would rather massage a mans toes than be seen in public with a dress that is that figure hugging. Anyone who knows my aversion to the male big toe - will understand the gravity of that declaration.

And I know with certainty that my friends consider my revulsion at the fleshy bits to be verging on insanity but I say this: without my superficiality, my wardrobe and my shoe collection - where would you gain your entertainment.

Count this as my public duty





Sunday 13 May 2012

Thigh deep in cycling

There are many things you can judge a man on. And whilst I set the bar quite high for integrity, value and morals, it starts with the thighs.

In the years I spent married, I can't say that I paid undue attention to men's thighs. One can only assume that since infidelity is not a practise I would partake in, that there was little reason for  to do. That all changed the day 'It' walked out and I discovered that a well toned body was something to be admired. With divorce came the belated and utter admiration for a pair of well toned thighs. Possibly to an unhealthy degree. If the well toned thighs come with well defined upper arms and a torso with tone - I am done for.

Put me within 5ft of well toned thighs and I lose the ability to communicate normally. There are those that would argue this to be my normal articulation ability, but anyone that has seen me respond to those with the right body - will know that I turn into a total airhead.

Which is unfortunate.

It is fair to say that living with a man that never exercised did little to feed the admiration for the male body. Post dutiful wife role I can see that in fact, the suitable kempt male body- is a thing of utter beauty. Sadly, it can be short lived. Far too many men act like peacocks, with lots of preening in a bid to secure a mate. Once found, they start eating. Before you know it, you are curled up on the sofa clutching someone's muffin top and the thighs become like a shelf for the remote.

But this new adoration for mens thighs comes with a price - and that is the envy that comes with it. Whilst gazing in admiration, I find myself hankering after the kind of muscle tone that feeds my inappropriate thought process. On high level thigh envy, I decide I need start cycling.

So I go to the bike shop and try a girls bike.  It's also very small which given my stature, should be perfect. I sit on it and feel like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I try a bigger one and still look like I have a spine disorder. Far worse, its red and white and frankly, it's a bit girlie.

The mens bike is matt charcoal, so I want it already because I am a girl and we choose technical stuff on important criteria, such as the colour. Sitting on it and it feels almost comfortable, if a little short.

"You are body is better suited to a man's bike" say's the man

"Are you saying that I have a man's body?" say I

"What I mean" he say's, back peddling frantically

"Is that women's bike's are designed for average women, and you are clearly not one of those"

So I leave the shop with my man's bike, feeling inordinately chuffed that I am not like other women.

And then I tackle my first hill. It is not as easy as it looks.

Apparently, it takes more than a mans bike and a lot of Lycra to get those thighs.

Friday 11 May 2012

A downhill challenge

I haven't been able to write for some time, which is a good thing as much as a bad. The last three years have been a journey in so many different forms and I have spent some time on it, trying to work out both the stuff in my head and the stuff around me. People have come into my life, people have left and I have used this blog to work things out. It's how I stop myself reacting to things.

Writing has been my space for cathartic vomit, to be happy, be hurt, to reframe, to rationalise, to deal with the things that at times, I have found unbearable. I write about things that I am incapable of expressing - which on the whole is my own vulnerability. I'm good at understanding other peoples issues, good at trying to separate someones behaviour from the person they truly are beneath. I am hopeless at telling anyone that I am hurt, or terrified, or vulnerable.

 And yet the blog has become the place where in fact, I cannot purge too many thoughts. There are so many observations that I have made, so much that I have worked out but to say them, to work it out here, would be picking away at the people I have cared about. (This clearly does not extent to IT) Which is a shame, since some of the best observations I have made are about the behaviour of others almost buried alive by their own baggage. Still, it's not like I am without mine.

 So, some time back I bumped into a man I once dated. We had a drink (in the company of others) and it was one of the biggest head screws I have ever experienced. The entire conversation was tinged with subtext and though they did not understand the specifics, made all present, most uncomfortable.

 Now I am a quick witted girl and I can hold my own on quick fire retort. What I couldn't do is keep up with who said what. By the end of the evening I wasn't even sure of my own name. There was lots of "don't you think if this happens, someone can project this onto someone who once did that" The general gist was "I recognise I was a bit of an arse but someone was once a bit of an arse to me, so that's okay"

 I say this - Life is full of people being unkind, of mothers that bullied, of fathers that ran off. Girlfriends are unfaithful, dogs bite, people die. No matter what it is, none of it makes it okay to treat someone else unkindly. No one is perfect, we all have issues but hey, lets all try and work those out with some honesty and not by 'projecting'the same onto people that come into you life and care.

As I drove off, the thought occurred that generally speaking, the people that screw with your head are generally people with screwed up heads. Trying to rationalise with a screwed up head is quite a tricky affair and probably best left to an expert in screwed up heads. But what a totally an utter waste of someones life. To be so damaged that you push everyone away has to be the ultimate road to loneliness.

In that moment of clarity on what is strikingly obvious, I realised that I do not need anyone messing with my head anymore and what I really needed, was to find something bigger to focus on. I needed a challenge that made the issues of others pale.

So three days later, I got on a plane to Bulgaria. I have never skied, I have never wanted to. I loathe the cold, much more of a SE Asia kind of girl. So I booked a three day skiing course, by myself. All I knew was that Bulgaria was somewhere in Estern Europe and I hated Skiing.

I cried in fear every day, I nearly died in the process of experiencing Bulgarian alcohol and my skiing isn't hugely better than it was before I left. I cried (like a snivelling baby) not because I found skiing difficult, it's not really that hard (theoretically). I cried because I avoid doing anything outside my comfort zone. Facing downhill on a slope in some alarmingly slippery skis, tapped into my bigest fear. Being vulnerable.

The ski instructor's plied me with empathy and shots and by the end of it, assessed that whilst I could ski, my biggest problem was that I refused to believe that I could. It was the perfect example of how fear prevents you going further in life.

On finding a challenge to make all the things that had become bigger than they ever deserved, it worked. More than that it taught me that I'm stronger than I thought. I cried in front of strangers and the sky didn't fall in.

So I'm vulnerable, I'm human. And despite the ridiculous heels, the acerbic tongue and the ability to think one step ahead, I cry like a girl on skis.

Occasionally.