Monday, December 19, 2016



She is not my leetle friend any more. We have fallen out. It was a little tiff. She felt I was not prioritising her over other pressing issues in life- like eating and gestating. Anyway, I just ran into her late at night or rather walked into her in a dark street and it all came rushing back to me..

Having done little or no exercise for some time now, I was knocking back some crab dip at my thin friend's house the other night when she mentioned she might have some clothes I could use for work. Since all my old work clothes seem to have paint on them, I thought I'd have a gander as she has much better taste than me and doesn't ever use paint. On her way to the laundry to gather her gear, I realised how trim she was looking and commented on her equally trim jeans. "Yes, these are size tens...", she shyly mentioned and the penny dropped.

She was going to give me her fat clothes.

Don't get me wrong. I love any of her clothes even if they are a little tatty, for her tatty and mine are poles apart. I have been known to bolster up a hem with a stapler if pushed to an extreme. She gives things away if they have a busted zip. I am happy to repair such items. All of these clothes though were completely intact. They were just too big for her. They are her fat clothes ... and they are too small for me!

In a desperate bid to fit into these gorgeous off casts, I am going to try to shed a few kilos to become the woman she one was. Strangely, doctors' dire warnings about improved prognoses with exercise and a slowly dwindling range of my own fitting clothes did nothing to spur me to action. I was just too tired. However, there is a sweet pair of her nipped in black capris that I'd love to prance about in.

The issue is when to exercise though. The morning has been claimed by the fiendish "Where are my"  brigade. So instead, I have harnessed my cranky pants and will ride into the sunset every evening at precisely the time they all start to give me a bad dose of the irrits. There will be no trainers or lycra, no dimwit doggy, sniffing concrete and walking three times around a post. Nor will there be water bottles or gadgets that tell me how many steps I have gone. No ipod or phone shall sully my serenity for I will go on a spur of the moment in thongs and jeans and an old jumper. I will be driven by the hunger for skinny trousers and some brain zen. There will be no set time, simply the impulse to lose my saddle bags and not my shit. It should take me a good forty minutes to cool off, heat up and do a lap of the block.

Last night I came back invigorated, calm and convinced I had lost five kilos. (The ugly Kmart boyfriend jeans stretch very easily.) My son was shocked that I had walked around the block on my own in the dark. "There are crazy people out there, Mum! You could be in real danger!" I smiled at him, intoxicated with oxygen and the wagging of bath time and muttered through gritted teeth, "They wouldn't dare and if they did, I'd shred 'em. Bring it on!!!" It hadn't occurred to him that maybe his mother WAS one of the crazy people, bless...

Getting exercise last century some time...

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