Tempered Fragility

My drafts folder holds 96 saved entries. Some of them are long, rambling posts that cover interesting topics such as how annoying trams are, and why Connex should give up and go back to France or wherever else they’re screwing up public transport.

Some of them are ideas that probably made sense at the time, but now, well… now they don’t:

• Cornflour and cauliflower. Flowers. Why?
• Shark attack fatal. Knew I couldn’t trust them.
• Post about wires and bird. Nesting fail.

Yeah, I don’t know either. I don’t even remember writing them. I’m going to assume they were brilliant ideas at the time, though. Mere scribbles of grander ideas, and so on.

(I’ve lost 6cm off my waist! Down to 64kg!)

I’ve often thought it would be easier to blog under an assumed name (or a nickname), instead of being open about who I am. Not because I want to post about things that aren’t appropriate, but because it’s weird telling my Nana something, only to have her say, “Oh, yes. Uncle Rod told me about that.” because my uncle reads my blog. It’s strange, not being able to write about things without family reading it.

So, I toyed with the idea of abandoning this place and starting up somewhere else. Anonymous, a cute nickname, no pictures, no references to places or people or landmarks. One big problem: I still want to comment on other people’s blogs. I may not have found my own distinctive style yet, but I’m pretty sure people would figure out who the whiny Australian used to be.

It’s also rather deceptive, suddenly switching names and interacting as a different person. I’d feel kind of creepy, and more than a little dishonest. Plus, if I took the easy way out, I wouldn’t be able to whinge about how my friends and family are cramping my style and I can’t write and wah wah wah. And that wouldn’t be any fun at all.

So! I’m still alive, and to celebrate that? I give you a list of stuff:

• I paid a ridiculous amount of money for an iPhone. I don’t regret it.
• I am still maintaining a weight below 70kg.
• I’m not swimming, because I have terrible tooth and jaw pain right now, and swimming (or any exercise, such as walking to the train station) causes the pain to become more severe.
• The dentist thinks my teeth are shot, but he has to keep patching the holes. Public healthcare fails.
• I’m looking for a private dentist.
• I’ve given up drinking Coca Cola. Impossible, you say? It’s true! (This is a combination of my teeth, my weight, and a ridiculous need to be healthy that develops twice a year. I’m giving it a month.)
• I have more homework than should be legal to assign.
• I am procrastinating less. By necessity, not choice.
• I am, apparently, blogging again.
• I’m still making everything about me. As it should be.

And that concludes my fascinating, insightful update. As you were, peasants.

Just when I thought I would forever be counting calories, unable to ever eat anything processed or in a Doritos packet ever again, I decided - almost on a whim - to go swimming. At first I figured I’d get there, do a few laps, get tired, and then splash around for an hour or so.

Instead, I ended up swimming laps for an hour. In fact, I didn’t even realise it had been an hour; I only stopped because the pool was closing. Then I got out of the pool, fell over because my legs felt like jelly, and proclaimed that swimming was the most awesome thing in the world.

And yes, I seriously did fall over. It was very embarrassing. I kind of caught myself with my hands when I fell, though, so I didn’t technically fall; I almost fell. But that left me on all fours with my butt in the air, so. We’ll stick with ‘I fell when I got out of the pool’, thanks very much.

The point is, I finally found a type of exercise that I enjoy. It puts no pressure on my knees and ankles, doesn’t make me sweaty, and doesn’t require that I interact with other people. It’s pretty much the perfect sport - and unlike joining a team, it’s relatively cheap.

It also burns about 2,000kj per hour. Which means I can treat myself every now and then, and not be wracked with guilt. Plus, you know, getting fit and staying healthy and blah blah blah. All that good stuff. I’m enjoying it a lot right now - hopefully I’m still as motivated in a week’s time.

Oh, and if you need me? I’ll be in the chips aisle - with the Doritos.

I broke the 70kg barrier a few days ago. Finally. 69.4kg.

All this time I’ve been telling myself (and everyone else) that I’d be happy if I could remain at about 70kg. As long as I didn’t gain any more weight, so long as I stayed a size 14, I would accept my body as it was. Screw being thin! I love being curvy and having hips and boobs and feminine charm.

Bullshit. Of course.

I’m not obsessed with my weight. I don’t watch what I eat, or weigh myself everyday. I don’t think about it all the time. But when I’m showering, when I’m getting changed, when I’m buying new clothes, I obsess over the fat. I scrutinise, like all women do, and I take note of the various ways in which my body is failing.

Stupid, to fret over something so inevitable. Bodies change. I’m not fifteen any more, and thank freakin’ christ for that, because I was like a plank back then, but still. I’m rounder than I want to be. My butt isn’t taut, my thighs touch, my upper arms aren’t firm any more.

I’m softer, which sounds nice, but in reality means I have a muffin top and the beginnings of a double chin.

(I’m beating the guys off with a stick. Promise.)

Anyway. I dropped below 70kg. I’m thrilled. I’m motivated to lose weight again.

Then, this afternoon, I flicked through a few channels and found a TV show about pro-anorexic websites. Sites that promote being dangerously thin as a lifestyle choice. I sat and watched as fifteen-year-old girls posted about caffeine tablets, and ‘thinsperation’, and feeling guilty for being hungry. They talked about avoiding mealtimes with their family, and only eating 200 calories each day.

Every time the number on the scale went down they wanted to lose ‘just two pounds more’.

And I thought, when is it enough? Is it ever enough, for anyone?

More importantly, when will it be enough for me?

I’m sure you are all waiting, breath held in anticipation, to hear how much weight I have lost since I declared I was going to lose five kilograms by the end of June. First of all, I would like to say this: I am not good at exercising. And by ‘not good’, I do  of course mean, ‘I find it impossible to motivate myself to exercise’.

That being said, it should come as no surprise to learn that I have lost a total of zero killograms. That’s right, ZERO KILLograms. You know why they’re KILLograms? Because trying to lose them is killing me. How do people get excited about this stuff, this getting sweaty and red-faced and out of breath? By running, I mean.

There are other ways to get sweaty which are definitely more fun. (Hi, Mum!)

So. On the one hand, we have the not-losing-weight thing, which is less of a thing, and more of a problem. On the other hand, I managed to maintain my weight for an entire month, which means I didn’t actually gain weight. This is the part where I get worked up and vow to exercise more, and eat better, and stop drinking Coke.

Honestly, though… am I going to do it? No. Those of you who were thinking ‘Yes, maybe, you could’? No, just… no. My best chance of exercising it more is by incorporating it into my daily routine, and although I’ll be trying to do that, I’m not actively going to ‘exercise’. I hate it; the whole idea, and the act itself.

What I am going to do, is continue walking to the station every morning – when I go back to class – instead of taking the bus. I’m going to walk a little quicker, and try to get my walking pace back to where it was before I got a boyfriend and discovered walking slowly, hand in hand, while smelling flowers and la-dee-dah.

And, I’m going to eat whatever I want. Because dieting sucks. Also because I have no willpower, and I’ve realised that I should be working around my lifestyle, not trying to conform to an ‘ideal’ lifestyle that someone else defines. Which is my way of saying I have no willpower, and I’m too lazy and broke to change my diet.

Three cheers for being curvy!

So, I wore a top the other day. A pretty, floaty purple top that tied at the waist and covered my (slightly) flabby upper arms. I wore it with dark jeans and high heels, and I looked in the mirror and thought, “This is good.” Then I flounced out the door with my jewellery and my perfume and my makeup, feeling great.

Only, here’s the problem. From the front, the top looks fantastic. From any other angle? I look fat. Or, as my mother so kindly put it, chunky. That’s right people; I am chunky, just like playdough and those really huge rings I modelled in my bedroom mirror when I was fifteen. Wonderful, isn’t it?

I knew purple wasn’t my colour.

In other news, I weighed myself today. Since they are a new set of scales, I’m not going to jump to any conclusions, but they ARE digital, and, well.. I weighed in at 72.7kg. If the scales are accurate, that means I’ve lost 2.3kg since I last weighed myself, and vowed to exercise. The only thing I’ve done so far is drink water. Heh.

I haven’t bought takeaway as often either, though. That could be helping, I suppose. What I really need to do is start walking/running every second day, like I promised myself I would. Or exercise at all, really. The water is a step in the right direction, though; let’s hope that the 2.3kg was legitimate weight gain.

Otherwise I may have to resort to getting serious about this ‘weight loss thing’.

I know the title of this post is fairly simple, and contains a fact that most people - women, especially - have known for centuries, but as I admitted earlier? I have never had to do it before, not actively. I mean sure, I’ve lost weight, and gained it. Who hasn’t? I’ve never dieted though, or ‘exercised’ regularly.

When I was younger, I rode horses twice a day and lived on a property that spanned hundreds of acres. We had farm animals, and things always needed to be done; any puppy fat that I might have gained when I moved into my thirteenth year - and became a woman; remind me to tell you all about that -  never had a chance.

Gone are the taut, trim and terrific days of my youth. Long gone.

So, I’ve been trying out this weight loss thing. And let me tell you, as of right now? Not working. Not even a little bit. Well, I mean, the exercise specifically. I might have lost weight, I don’t know. But the exercise just IS NOT happening. It’s difficult to motivate myself to go out and get all hot and sweaty for no good reason.

No reason other than health, that is, and really? Totally not important.

Moving along. You may have picked up on the fact that I don’t know if I’ve lost weight or not. That would be because I don’t actually own a set of scales. I KNOW. I am totally kicking ass at this weight loss thing, really. All I need to do now is actually exercise, and maybe - just maybe - stop inhaling boxes of Maltesers.