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Cropdusting Hipsters

31 Oct


It all started when I farted in yoga.

It happened once, twice, three times a lady flatulist.

Not many girls own up to a fart, so at first I pretended that the pop was simply a wayward hip joint being wrenched from its socket like a newly-weaned, puppy farm kelpie. It kept happening though: every class I’d cropdust inner-west hipsters like a leaky Vietnam war jet, blithely turning the yoga studio into a miasma of my own special brand of Agent Orange. And sure, those bastards were breaking wind in uttanasana waaaaaay before it was cool, but some poor fucker was going to get their improved flexibility with a side of asbestosis. Seriously, I was about to be swapped out of the class on an emissions trading scheme for a sacred cow. I had to do something. So I tried a champagne cork. My li’l butt-plug became a rogue missile that rebounded off the wall and wedged in my instructor’s man-bun. It nearly took his eye out, actually. Thank god he had those vintage horn-rimmed Ray-Bans on.

Blaming it all on poor digestion, I briefly turned vegan. That was an experience. A windy one: I didn’t realise that eating legumes would cause me to fart more. Why did nobody tell me that? I dropped my guts so often that I’m probably due for a stoma. And it’s fucking hard to be a vegan. Not because of what you can’t eat; but because you have to master a brand-new tone of voice. The most important part of being a vegan is telling everyone that you’re a vegan. And you have to learn to say this correctly. You want only a modicum of snarkiness. You should imply superiority without sounding grandiose. Do this wrong and you’ll get punched in the face. And you absolutely cannot get punched. Trust me. A physical blow is devastating to a vegan- they’re all dangerously low on iron because vegan food tastes like unwaxed cardboard, elder abuse and broken dreams.

Next I tried The Paleo Diet: one of the most baffling marketing gimmicks this side of a Toohey’s commercial. Paleo is astoundingly popular in Australia- Woolworths are in the process of creating a mastodon section in the frozen food aisle as you read this very paragraph, so it’s not likely to become extinct anytime soon. In my brief stint as a cavewoman, I discovered that you can eat a large variety of foods. Such as bacon and olive Paleo bread served with thick, creamy clarified butter.

I wasn’t aware that Cro-Magnon man cured meat. Or baked, actually. Is Betty Crocker that fucking old? And what cavewoman churned butter? Was that while getting Bubba Yum Yum to stop scrawling on the walls of the cave and consume their autism-averting bone broth? And I have a math problem for you: how much kombucha do I have to drink over what period of time before I get the ‘Pete Evans manic gleam’ in my eye?


That man is the Charles Manson of the food industry. Have you seen his Instagram page? It’s just drenched in clarified smug. I’m fairly certain that if you scroll backwards through it at a high velocity you’ll generate enough Newtownian energy to play Helter Skelter.

Another weird Paleo thing? Activated almonds. Yep, just because Pete Evans is a dick, it doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy his nuts. How do you activate nuts? Well, first you soak them in salt water- so the special, miracle Paleo enzymes are released- then you bake them over a low heat. And yes, cavemen totally did this. It’s how we evolved evolutionarily- activated almonds gave us the energy burst needed to outrun the sabre-tooth tiger. Everyone knows that. God, read a book. Activated nuts are easier on your colon, too. So not only will your anus love Pete Evans’ nuts, your shit won’t stink, either. I have to admit that my nuts felt awesome after they were activated. They were so salty and warm! I couldn’t stop playing with them. And I don’t know why Pete Evans doesn’t say to women, “Hey baby, do you want to come over to my place tonight and help me activate my nuts?”

There are people in this world who spend their time thinking about the dichotomy of capitalism and world peace. Me? Paleo pick-up lines.

Anyway, when my Paleolithic era died out, I latched onto the I Quit Sugar bandwagon and rode it to glory.

I Quit Sugar isn’t a diet. Sure, it involves drastically reducing your calorie intake and cutting out entire food groups- just like a diet- but it’s more than that. I Quit Sugar is a cult way of life. That will make you healthier. Glowier. Better at calculus. See, your body metabolises fructose differently to other sources of fuel. For example, when you drink Coca-Cola, your pancreas release insulin. You knew that, right? Well what you may not know- and I didn’t until I started reading Sarah Wilson’s blog- is that insulin then reacts with the soda, causing the glucose molecules to bind together to form a miniscule troll that will then take refuge in a pocket of your liver. Consume enough, and the pocket will begin to harden, calcify, and resemble a cave (this is why I Quit Sugar is so similar to the Paleo diet). If you keep consuming sugar, your body becomes acidic, and the troll will magically procure a pitchfork. The pitchfork then permeates the cells of your mitochondria to give you diabetes, adult acne, unfuckability, and high-magnitude emotional instability. Before you know it, you’re spinning off into a banshee’s orbit, screeching at people, dousing the world in vitriol because some lazy motherfucker forgot to refill the photocopier’s paper tray. Again. Bastard. This causes a chain reaction: the other person gets angry, stews on it, goes home, kicks the dog, slams the fridge door, and crushes their son’s 5th birthday cake- the Power Ranger one that the nice old lady down the street baked for him. The son will then grow up with soul-crushing feelings of inadequacy, which leads him to externalise, shag your only daughter, and dump her in front of the entire school, breaking her heart.

All because you drank a fucking Coke. Shame on you.

So, in summation: Sugar is evil. And, like Buffy, we must roundhouse kick it in the temple.

Odd things happened when I quit. My shopping trolley, for instance, was suddenly stuffed with kale, maca powder and coconut water.

Coconut water. Something that I once proclaimed to be “the only substance in the world less palatable than jizz.”

As the month wore on, my blood sugar levels stabilised, my stomach flattened, and my energy levels increased in direct correlation to my sense of puffed-up superiority. Before I knew it, I was becoming one of those horrible people that post their dinner to social media. Although, I must have retained some modicum of CC-ness because I added the hashtag ‘peteevansisadick’ to everything.

By day 35 I was running at 88% macrobiotic: almost at full Gwyneth. I felt amazing. I was a better person. Better than you. Better than Jesus. So I decided to bake brownies for everyone, which is what Jesus used to do for his disciples.

Don’t believe me? It’s true. Jesus used to bake all the fucking time. He wasn’t a Palestinian. He was a Paleotarian. It’s just a mistranslation. Pete Evans is writing a book about it. It’s self-published. Due out later this year. I believe it’s called, You have to eat Paleo to get into heaven. Apparently Bubba Yum Yum got smart from being fed bone broth instead of breast milk and wrote delicious recipes on the cave walls, which Jesus then found when he spent three days in there over Easter. He was resurrected to bring Paleo to the world. Where do you think the “loaves and the fishes” thing came from? It was smoked mackeral on gluten-free Paleo bread.

Anyway, since I’d been so healthy for so long, I decided to eat some batter. I dipped my finger in the mixing bowl, scooped out a large chunk of sugary happiness, and-

It all unravelled quite quickly.

I came to three hours later, snapping back into reality like a KGB sleeper agent who’d just heard their trigger phrase. I was on my kitchen floor, foetal, with a mixing bowl on my head. Around me, a nest of sugar packets, brownie batter, a mangled rubber chicken, clotted cream, and pinking shears. I have no recollection of what happened and my thongs are still missing. It’s possible that I traded them for some sugar. Or a rubber chicken. And I spent the next seven days consuming more chocolate than Honey Boo Boo’s entire family- including the inbred, extended brother-cousins. I was more saccharine than Delta’s post-leukemia album.

Banning sugar had given me a total ‘don’t push the red button moment’, and when I allowed myself to linger within the vicinity of the button again I not only touched it, but licked it, fondled it, and spanked it with synthetic poultry. I needed a detox day, I told myself. 24 hours where I consumed nothing but vegetables and green tea. That’d pull me out of Willy Wonka’s rabbit hole. I’d reset everything and I’d be okay.

I made it to 5pm before driving to the shops and purchasing a large jar of Nutella, which I then consumed for dinner.

That’s not true.

The double bacon cheeseburger with extra avocado (that’s a vegetable…right?!) was my dinner. The Nutella became dessert. A dessert that I ate directly from the jar with a tablespoon while wearing little more than shame, a basketball jersey and a pair of Batman knickers. Well, I could only bring myself to eat ¾ of it before coming to my senses and throwing it in the bin.

Okay, that isn’t true either.

I consumed roughly ⅞ of the jar before digging the remaining slivers out with my fingers, smearing them across my cheeks like war-paint, and watching Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson on Netflix, because when I cross that sticky brown line into debauchery, my instinct is always to round it like a marathon runner and sprint into the forest faster than a Delorian trying to travel through time.

At 32 years old I should know what I can and can’t do in relation to dieting. Unfortunately, I’m not the kind of person that can airily attend a few extra spin classes and skip dessert in order to fit into last summer’s bikini. When I diet, it starts as, “I’m only allowed to eat broccoli and cottage cheese, upside-down in a darkened room, while an organic lemon myrtle candle burns,” before eventually degenerating to, “So, I’ve spent the morning burning myself and smearing Ben & Jerry’s ice-cream into the wounds while crying and listening to The Smiths.”

So I quit quitting sugar because I didn’t want to be a quitter anymore. I had to. I Quit Sugar nearly turned me into Sally Struthers. So I threw the whole thing away and decided to face reality, to be a grown-up and be honest about where my digestive issues stem from.

Blocked chakras. Obviously. Specifically the sacral one.

So I’ve just booked the Flowering Lotus Spiritual Retreat. It promises to be a “magical journey through Mother India” which includes meditation, reiki, introspective rituals of the sacred goddess and, for some lucky participants, a Delhi Belly purifying cleanse. Inner Peace is guaranteed in the fine print and since I’ve booked before December 1st, I receive a free colonic irrigation upon arrival. Woo!

Voy a Surfear

15 Nov

I need to be honest with myself. The charade has to stop. Something happened today, and I simply can’t lie to myself for one more moment. It doesn’t matter who started it, who called who a cry-baby, it ends now. It’s time to be an adult and admit one simple truth:

I suck at surfing.

Like really, really suck at it.

It’s okay. In the half hour walk from the beach I’ve made peace with it. My ego, which lay in tattered shreds, has been scotch-taped back together. I mean, it’s not like I’m a total spaz. Well, I kind-of am, but I have plenty of skills that more than make up for my lack of grace on the ol’ longboard. I can wiggle my ears, you know. It’s true. I have a some sort of bizarre muscle mutation in my cranium which allows me to move them without touching them. When I was a kid I used to pretend that I was Samantha from Bewitched, but a horrible accident meant that I could no longer wiggle my nose, so I had to resort to ear calisthenics to cast spells instead.

That’s not true.

Well, it is, but after typing it I realised how weird it sounds.

I’ve never been particularly athletic. In school, my best friends and I would enter P.E class, clutching our limbs and moaning like World War 1 soldiers on the front line. Diseases that had been cured would come out, “I can’t play volleyball, Miss. My polio is acting up again.” Once, during the headily petulant era of Year Nine, I wagged P.E. My friend and I walked to the shops and ate ice cream instead- a move that threw down a gauntlet of decadence that would scurry behind me like Thing Addams for decades. My teacher noticed that I was missing. Not my friend, just me. Apparently the absence of an argumentative, pubescent horror child that made her life difficult was notable. It certainly wasn’t my Lacrosse prowess that kept me in her memory, anyway.

I played softball after school for one season. I wagged that, too. When forced to play, I would stand in Right Field, disinterestedly watching the ball bounce by as my team mates shouted things like “fucking move”. My parents would watch from the sidelines, pretending that they had a child who was a source of pride. “Maybe don’t just stand with your arms folded, CC,” my mum helpfully said after one particularly heinous match. “Try and, you know, look interested.” I’m not sporty. Anything beyond lifting weights while scowling at the floor, or running on a treadmill like a hamster to Don’t Stop me Now by Queen is beyond my capabilities. So, my decision to take surf lessons was really an act of bravery. I’m still a soldier on the front line, I just have a better excuse than polio now. ‘Hungover’ usually works.

My first surfing lesson was fun. I was with five fresh-out-of-the-army Israeli’s, one of whom, bafflingly, couldn’t swim. I don’t know what drives a person to choose surfing lessons as a leisure activity when they look like a three-legged Collie flailing in the water, but Lame Dog Goldstein did serve as misdirection for my suckiness. You might think I’m mean for saying that. The way I see it is, he either has, or will, slaughter about seven hundred and eighty six Palestinian children in his lifetime. I have the moral highground. Which means I can compare him to a disabled canine. Don’t like it? Well, email me and we can engage in a long debate on Zionist Propaganda and anti-semitism. I’ve read The Gun and the Olive Branch. Well, half of it. But I’ll win, anyway.

Enough of that, though. I didn’t think that my crapness was any more than the average level of I’ve-never-done-this-before. Sure, I’m Australian and I should know how to surf, wrestle crocodiles, and match a cork-adorned Akubra to any outfit, but I watched Jaws at the tender age of ten and as a result I’ve managed to get through thirty one years with minimal time in the ocean. In my first surf lesson, I kind of stood up. Kind of. I did manage to get a good paddle going. Then I sat on the board, staring pensively at the ocean like some ludicrous Layne Beachley. It was fun.

This lesson something happened. I’m not entirely sure what.

Perhaps I should have been practising. I could have spent my nights lying on the kitchen floor and leaping up like a ninja instead of drinking beer and socialising. The whole thing is probably my fault- I’m not taking my non-existent career as an amateur surfer seriously.

In the fourty eight hours between lessons, the Israeli’s had all been transformed into Hasidic Kelly Slater’s. The one who couldn’t swim was gone, replaced with an impossibly attractive girl who carried herself with the arrogant grace of the genetically blessed. The bitch could surf, too. She even did a fist pump as she rode the wave. A fucking fist pump. It’s true- I saw it as I clutched my surfboard, choking on salt water. “Fucking Israeli’s,” I muttered as I tried to sit up. Karma- or God- tipped me off the board then. I looked like a Down Syndrome porpoise as I remounted.

The instructors are lovely, and incredibly patient with me. “CC, you look really tense. You need to relax,” one coached. “Don’t think that can’t do it, don’t think that anybody is judging you-”

“I’m judging me.”

“And don’t feel that you have to stand up, okay? Just have fun.”

“You’re right. I’m allowed to completely suck at surfing. It’s my right to be absolutely terrible and I’m going to milk it.”

When it became clear that my ‘kneel on the board and let out a high pitched shriek’ technique wasn’t working, I was taken aside and given special ‘stand up’ lessons. “Oh god,” I exclaimed to the instructor. “I’ve fallen behind the class and need extra tutoring. I’m in remedial surfing now.”

He laughed and offered me some advice. “Try not to, you know, be so awful.”

Whatever he said worked, I managed to stand up and balance on the board without a wave twice. Therefore I can do it, but I don’t think I can do it, so when I am on a wave, instead of casually rising and giving a little fist pump, I find myself thinking, Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, fuck, fuck, fuck, stand up! Stand up! Stand- gurgle, gurgle, choke.

At the end of the wave I’d surface rapidly, choke on the Pacific, and flap about. I must have looked like a dying seagull because the instructors would look at me in horror. “CC! Are you okay?” I was always fine, the only thing that took a real battering was my ego, which, after two hours, was almost worn down to a nub. I was called over and told to try another wave. I asked the instructor what time it was. I think he knew I was two seconds from fed-up because he said “If you like, catch this wave and then you can go back to the sand.”

“So I can sit on the shore and suck at surfing quietly from the sidelines?”


“Thank you!”

I managed to stand up for a nanosecond on that wave, and the adrenaline was enough to make me want to go back out. I didn’t, though. I was battle-scarred. I grabbed my thongs, ripped off my rash vest and began a long trudge up the stairs back to the surf school.

In a bikini.

And nothing else.

Sometimes you just can’t get it right. Not only did I suck in the water, I sucked on land, too. For reasons that still remain unclear to me, I chose to leave my clothes and towel at the school. So I had to walk the main street of town in pool-underwear. In Puerto Escondido, you can’t walk anywhere without running into people you know, so my solitary trudge of defeat was witnessed by many acquaintances. “Hola,” I would say to people, trying to cover my midsection with a sea soaked rash vest. Do you like the travellers physique? I’d think. The soft lumpiness is thanks to Corona and chocolate. Look at this bulge, I’ve had to eat seventeen tacos to get that bulge. Have you ever seen a chickie with a rim of flesh there? No? That’s right, I’m hot shit. That’s why I’m almost naked in broad daylight. Thank me later.

Some days you are a triangle peg in a world of Layne Beachley’s, some days you are a general on the front lines, bravely fighting polio, but most days, self deprecation can soothe a shattered ego.

Hashtag Bonespo

10 Jul

My social media obsession has morphed. While my fist in the air damn-the-man save-the-empire scorn of Facebook has continued, I am now, like, oh-my-god, totally into Instagram.

I know, right?!

Aside from random tattoo artists, my friends, and the kick-arse female celebrities I follow, I am also, like, totally down with a plethora of fitness inspiration accounts. Maybe I find vomit-inducing workout slogans

“Strive for progress, not perfection!”

motivating enough to drag my lazy carcass to the gym on a winter’s morning.

Or maybe I just like looking at pictures of toned torsos in bikinis.


But, we aren’t delving into the sticky tar of my subconscious nor are we discussing any tendencies that I may or may not have on this blog.

On a side note: Support gay marriage.

Back to the point. Bored at work, I followed a rocky social media trail that led me from the brightly coloured, tanned, surgically-enhanced, hard-bodied land of #fitspo into the bleak, colourless world of #bonespo.

Pro-anorexia accounts.

And, like a motorist rubbernecking a car crash, I spent the better part of an hour staring, open-mouthed at skin-covered skeletons. Some of the posts are attention seeking nonsense:


That are little more than the online equivalent of compliment fishing. Stuff like this makes my eyes roll, and a small, evil part of me is tempted to say, “Yes, you have gotten fat. You look a bit like Rosie O’Donnell. Stop eating carbs, piggy-piggy-potbelly.” Despite what the hashtags say, there is a big difference between anorexia and a pretty girl halfheartedly proclaiming that she’s fat to seek validation.

But some are real. I came across this

And my heart broke a little bit.

It screamed a pain that I knew from the past and, for some unknown reason, I am going to over-share talk about it on here.

You see- gulp– for ten years, I was bulimic. Four years ago, I sought help and have managed to sit in remission where I will stay because fuck going back to feeling like that. Ever. Again.

I don’t particularly want to get into what I was like when I was sick because it’s pointless. I did things that I am not proud of. I did things that I will never speak of. I lied to people I love. For a decade. It was bad. And nobody knew. It was my secret. My dirty little invisibility blanket that shrouded me.

Eventually, I got help. And I can say with total certainty that going into recovery is fucked. It’s like being born again. You are thrust, completely disorientated, into the brightness of reality where you have to relearn basic skills. Like eating chocolate.

Yes, eating chocolate.

It seems simple, doesn’t it? You put it in your mouth, chew, and swallow. Big deal. It’s a food. Nothing more.


Food used to terrify me. To someone with an Eating Disorder, chocolate is the monster that lives in your closet. Chocolate is loaded with guilt, shame, remorse, and sadness. Chocolate calls to you at night. It wraps you in a warm hug before burying the knife in your back. Chocolate is your frenemy. It sounds ridiculous but it’s true. And anybody who has ever struggled with food is probably nodding at the screen right now.

Women’s magazines and The Butterfly Foundation lead you to believe that speaking the words “I’m bulimic” will lead to scores of people stroking your hair, calling you brave and pretty, and telling you that it will be okay.

Doesn’t happen.

In reality, recovery is an uphill climb. I had to argue with the doctor to get a referral for a psychologist. She didn’t want to give me one. She told me that I wasn’t bulimic, I had hyperthyroidism and it was normal to eat a lot. My response? “Yes, but it’s hardly fucking normal to stick your fingers down your throat at the end of every meal, is it?” It was the first of many Snappy-Tom moments that would occur as I clambered up that hill. I was astounded by people’s reactions. My mother and I stopped speaking. My dad chastised me for not talking to him about it. My friends were flummoxed. One said to me towards the end “You took us all by surprise…you were always the one with your shit together.” Whenever I mentioned the E.D to my husband he looked like I was broaching the subject of arse play with a strap-on. Frightened. Uncomfortable. Stiff. Eventually, I just shut up and did what I had to do. It wasn’t fun but somehow I made it to the top where I sat, blinking dumbly at the day like an apocalypse survivor. Now I am obsessed with not being obsessed. I am obsessed with not dieting. Not judging myself. Staying healthy. I have turned my illness into something positive, which is probably the best that any of us can hope for.

An Eating Disorder is isolating, recovery is isolating, and remission can be isolating. Hearing women bitch about their weight and talk diets is intolerable. It’s a mindset that I have left behind. It’s foreign. They might as well be talking about arse play with a strap-on. I have learnt that glibly adding, “Oh, I never diet!” is usually received the same way as “You look like Rosie O’Donnell”, and so I tend to sit, fidgeting, instead. When girls begin the circle-jerk of self-flagellation about their weight, they usually want commiseration or compliments. It’s one of those bizarre female bonding things. The correct response for “Oh, I hate my thighs” is either “Don’t be silly, you’re gorgeous” or “I see your thighs and raise you a fat arse.”

Recently, people have been telling me that I’ve lost weight, so I decided to weigh myself. I’ve lost 5kg in six months. I have no idea how. When I was sick, 60 was the magic number. At 60kg, life would be perfect. At 60kg, my problems would magically disappear. Without trying, I have hit that weight and, to be honest, I don’t like it. My ribs protrude. I have the torso of an eighty seven year old woman…with tattoos and incredibly perky boobs. I’m still in a healthy weight range but I feel…wrong, somehow. I’d grown to like the fact that I’m built like a girl rather than a teenage boy. I liked having hips. I liked being a bit soft in places. I am now consciously trying to put on weight. Who knew that recovery see me doing that?

At the end of the day, I am thankful for going to hell and back because it completely changed me for the better. Scar tissue is stronger than regular tissue. A stronger, calmer, more confident CC emerged. One without fear. Or shame. Or odd behaviours surrounding food. I am completely bulletproof in my self-image now because I know that I am worth more than the size of my derrière. The gooey centre is more important than the shell. And I’m happy. Things are far from perfect, but I have managed to harness something within and it keeps me content, despite what life throws at me.

Anyway, back to Instagram. I can understand where these pro-ana communities come from because, when you’re sick, you feel completely alone. A girl on the other side of the world going through the same thing understands your pain but every ‘healthy’ person can’t fathom it. The comments prove this: “WTF is wrong with you, that’s gross” was under a picture of a bony ribcage. It was gross, but such a statement misses the point, and I can imagine it would probably push someone further down the spiral. Telling a person with extremely low self worth that she looks ugly for being too thin is as useful as handing them a plate of food saying “Just eat it.” It’s where people like Michelle Bridges do more harm than good. We need to stop body-shaming people. It’s not helpful. How you wear your body is as much of a personal choice as how you wear your hair, and the amount of fat you choose to carry is nobody’s fucking concern. Can we let that statement marinade in the air for a moment? Your weight, if you are happy with it, is nobody’s fucking concern. If eating cake makes you happy, go for it. Enjoy your life. It’s too short. Besides, you are probably having a better time than somebody who is a slave to the scales.

I nearly put a line in this blog saying that every guy I speak to prefers curves over bones but I left it out because that’s not the point of an E.D. You don’t starve to become attractive to the opposite sex. Half the time you are so consumed with self hatred that you can’t even think about sex- why would you want another human being to see how vile and fat you are? It’s not about being pretty, or finding a man. What drives you is multi-layered, complex, unique to every person. Picking the thread on the blanket unravels a mess that you have to slowly pull apart and wade through.

Anyway, that photo broke my heart because I know how it feels to be repulsed by your body, to despise the way you look with such a passion that it blinds you to everything else. I know what it’s like to poke hatefully at flesh. I know what it’s like to turn to food to ease this pain. I know what it’s like to go too far. I know the panic that comes after a binge, the calmness immediately after the purge, then that indescribable emptiness and isolation that slowly builds thereafter. It’s horrible. Anybody going through it deserves a medal for bravery. And, if you are going through it, I have a revoltingly saccharine message: Get help because life can be better. You can heal.

Of course, I couldn’t say all of this on Instagram. I’m long winded. This post is 1600 words. But, I felt compelled to say something. So I commented on the photo: “You aren’t disgusting. You are healthy and that is beautiful. Never forget that :)”

Not much, but I did get a reply half an hour later “Thank you, CC. I appreciate it <3”

“I’m the one that’s fucked up?! Just because I’m looking deep into your birth canal for four quarters…”

24 Mar

I’ve started taking dance classes.

A particular type of dance. Which involves a particular type of prop that one may or may not spin around.

Every Monday night I join a troupe of twenty other brunettes wearing baggy T-shirts and bashful grins at Beginners Pole Fitness.

Now, I don’t have daddy issues, I got plenty of hugs growing up, and I paid attention in school. Stripper stereotypes aside, I imagine that any feminist reading this post now is clucking about objectification of women and the male gaze. Hush. Feminism gave me the choice to spin on a pole in bike shorts and a singlet while Sexyback plays in the background, and I thank you not to judge. Go back to tittering over the antics of Miley Cyrus and her freakishly long tongue. Or, go back to pursing your lips and not having any sex. My boobs and my vagina remain covered at all times. I am empowered. Pole dancing is a totally valid form of cardio, too. Just like cheerleading. Pole dancers are athletes. Athletes with a particular skill set that is impossible to take seriously.

To be honest, I had wanted to learn how to pole dance since my best friend lent me her Carmen Electra aerobic striptease DVDs, a move which ultimately resulted in me performing several clumsy and inebriated lap dances for my ex-husband, Queens of the Stone Age thumping though the speakers with a slinky seduction that I could never quite pull off.

When organising my wedding, I asked the wedding coordinator if the hotel room had a CD player in it.
It could be arranged.
The conversation could have stopped there. It should have stopped there. Unfortunately, CC-Land is prone to the odd storm of verbal diahorrea.
“Oh that’s good,” I babbled. “I’ve bought a corset and I’m going to give my husband a lap dance on the wedding night.”
I wasn’t sure what this piece of information was meant to accomplish. Perhaps I thought that whores got discounts on hotel rooms.
There was five seconds of silence which I gather was her swallowing the bile that had risen in her throat.
“Oh. Um. That’s great.” A forced laugh echoed down the line. “Is there, ah, anything else you need?”
“I don’t suppose you could help me lace the corset up?”
No, I never said that. I realised my overshare immediately and bit a knuckle in shame. I imagined she had to rub the flesh off her temples before the image of a clumsy brunette with a big bum grinding before a lanky, inebriated groom in a poorly lit hotel room was erased. Perhaps I should have asked where the best location for a surreptitious mid-reception blow-job was. Or, I could have told her to make sure the room also contained a butt plug, a large jar of Nutella and some amyl nitrate. You know, just to thoroughly freak her out and send her dashing back to a boring suburban call centre that does not involve conversations with jabbering dickheads who give TMI’s about their wedding night antics.

Anyway, enough of that.

Tomorrow I’m changing my name to Destyni, gluing on some acrylic nails, recklessly dousing myself with shimmering clouds of body glitter, and unleashing my inner trollop.

Look, there’s every chance I am going to get sick of nursing one day. There has been more than one occasion that I have strolled onto the ward, feeling thoroughly burnt out and burdened, only to be immediately abused by a toothless ice-junkie. Times like this I find myself absently thinking, Fuck this, I’m becoming a stripper. I won’t be able to work in mental health forever; well, not without winding up on the other side of the glass, having been unceremoniously stripped of my keys. I may as well learn a valuable skill before arthritis and cellulite renders me unable to execute a decent angel spin. Pole dancing beats learning how to type. I can retire early and pay for everything in small denomination bills. I’m only doing it until my acting career takes off, anyway.

Or, maybe this is a cunning stunt. We all know that the quickest way to Charlie Sheen’s heart involves a pair of clear heels and a snowstorm of cocaine. I can spin my way to Vegas and then I am only one black eye and a drunken boot down the stairs away from sheening my way into a large sum of hush-money via a strategic blackmail manoeuvre involving a nanny cam, a midget and the National Enquirer. I’m opportunistic. And, as my nan often reminded me, sitting on a gold mine.

Do we have enough justifications? Yes? Let’s begin.

There is a definite schism between my expectations and reality as I nervously await my first class. I’m expecting that I will swan around with an agility and poise that puts the other beginners to shame. My teacher will call me a natural. She’s never seen a girl so at home on the golden rod before. My wild, unbrushed hair will mean I bear a striking resemblance to a gracefully ageing Jennifer Beals. This will pique the interest of the well built Scandinavian fireman who happens to be loitering across the room in between dashing heroically into burning buildings to save women and children. We will lock eyes. It will smoulder. And I will spend my days thereafter twirling like a music box ballerina around a fireman pole while he does one handed dead lifts and solves world hunger.

The class started and I began to wonder if I looked like an elephant from Fantasia. One with cerebral palsy. My body rolls looked like I was rebuffing the scaly penis of a degenerate in a trench coat before being punched in the uterus by a midget.

I’ll pause and let you picture that.

My drops were often accompanied by the screeching sound of flesh sliding down metal-the erotic version of fingernails down a blackboard- and I dismounted my spins like a car crash victim being violently flung through a windscreen- complete with high pitched keening sounds of terror.

To top it off, the instructor is an impossibly gorgeous blonde, a compact pocket-rocket full of perky enthusiasm who, I’m fairly certain, can’t count beyond, “five, six, seven, EIGHT, come on girls!” She has the lithe grace of Sylvie Guillem teamed with a freakish Herculean strength. I watched helplessly as she demonstrated a firemans sit with ease, trying and failing several times myself before finally hiking up my 3/4 leggins and using friction and well versed thigh muscles to squeeze and cling to the pole, my eyes alight with fear and inferiority. “That’s fantastic, CC!” she exclaimed through pouty red lips. “Now we just have to SPIN!” and, like proud mother watching her child on a roundabout in the playground, she twirled me with an alarming velocity that caused the room to revolve in a nauseating blur of mirrors, awkwardness and hot pants. I’d like to believe that I alighted this spin with the ethereal grace of a Victoria’s Secret angel floating to earth.

But I’m a realist.

I looked more like Lucifer unceremoniously crashing from the heavens, all horned indignation and red ass cheeks.

Despite this, and despite the collection of blotchy bruises I now have on my legs, I am completely addicted.

Pole dancing and bruised knees. Can this post get any more suggestive?

Reclaim the Night!

8 Jan

I lost my licence.

Not because I’m a bad driver. Because I’m a good driver. I got 13 points last year. I bet you don’t have 13 points. What do you have, two? Bah! I’m top of the leaderboard. I’m such a good driver that the RTA has given me a three month break from bitching about rising petrol prices, just so the rest of you can catch up to my level of awesomeness.

That’s what the letter they sent said, anyway.

You know, reading between the lines.

As a result, I’ve been enmeshed in the urine soaked, vomit coated public transport system of our fair city. I’ve caught trains from all areas of Inner and Western Sydney without issue. I’ve stood on Mt Druitt train platform at 10pm after visiting a friend- no problems there.

I’ve been at Central waiting for a bus at 1am- a young Italian fellow told me that my clothes were “quirky…you’ve got a lot of different looks going on there…quite colourful. It’s different, but somehow it works.”

There you go. If I didn’t lose my licence I wouldn’t have known that.

So, I blithely caught the train home from work tonight.

I’m editing photos on my iPad, minding my own business, when a drunk man parks his bum beside me. He engages me in conversation. I’m friendly in response, but not too friendly. After all, I don’t want to encourage the drunk prick.

Somehow I do.


I was invited back to his place…
(At least that’s what I think he said, I could only make out 1 in 5 slurred words.)

…because I’m a pretty lady…
(Okay, so I might have heard what I wanted to hear there.)

…he knows how to treat women…
(By drunkenly harassing them at 11:30 at night on a train platform. What a prince.)

…and he is absolutely not a faggot. He loves women.
(Alright, buddy. Jesus. Calm down.)

When I mention my imaginary large, rugby player boyfriend- the one who I have been with for five years despite his nasty, territorial streak- he’s undeterred. “I-goung-fill-shh-ff-home.”
“I’m going to follow you home.”
“Oh, no you’re fucking not.”

I know what you’re thinking, ‘that’s an exaggeration, there’s no way you said that.’

Oh, yes I fucking did. I even gave him my serious face as I said it.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t discouraged. “Yep,” he squints at me. “I am.”


The train comes. I nearly break my neck getting to it. The young nurse who was beside me during the exchange, helpfully remaining completely silent, turns and gapes at me.
“He was scary!”
“Fucking A,” I reply. Ever the lady. “I hope he doesn’t follow me on the train.”

I turn to look.

He’s struggling out of his seat.


I climb the stairs. He follows. I move through the carriage. He follows. I open the door to the next carriage, risking a quick glance, and see him lurching after me.


Have you ever seen an action movie with a chase sequence on a train? It usually goes like this: The chasee darts through carriages; they open doors, saying, “Come on, come on, come on!” in a low voice; they hurriedly glance over their shoulder and they pant because they are still smoking cigarettes even though they have been home for a week and they should have quit already but why-oh-fucking-why is it so hard to quit cold turkey?!


Well, I got to do that. I got to be Jason Bourne minus the skills for five minutes.

I made it to the first carriage, got off at the next station, and doubled back behind him.

I know. Totally ninja.

I didn’t see him again. Either he passed out, forgot, or slipped on an empty Starbucks cup and cracked his head open, spilling blood and brain matter on the floor.

Anyway, the moral of the story: if I hadn’t lost my licence I wouldn’t have been able to outsmart a drunk in a daring and heart-stopping chase sequence, worthy of any summer blockbuster. And I wouldn’t have another mediocre blog post. Everything happens for a reason.

They say men love the thrill of the chase.

The most frightening thing a girl will ever do

5 Dec

The lack of full length mirrors in hostel bathrooms is a blessing.

You see, while I’ve been away I have been eating like a traveller- blissfully floating on fluffy clouds of cream and sugar- but this has been interspersed with more walking than Lord of the Rings even the fucking trees walked in that movie. I was eating more crap, but my clothes still fit the same, so I wasn’t concerned.

Getting into the shower in Dublin, I got a fright. There was a pasty, chubby woman in my bathroom. Soft in some places, lumpy in others. I shrieked, then realised it was the first time I had seen myself nakey in six weeks. The sight that greeted me was a thirty year old woman who has not seen the inside of a gym for two months. I actually had stomach muscles when I left for this trip, unfortunately they were obliterated by caramel èclairs in Paris.

Ordinarily this wouldn’t bother me for a few reasons. I am more than just a round ass in a pair of jeans and I think dieting and obsessing with your weight is unhealthy. And, women are nastier about other women’s bodies than men are. I’m guilty of it myself- I have sniggered at my fair share of bigger girls in hot pants at festivals, but only because breakfast-shorts are for those with box-gap. Anyone over 50kg has no business wearing them. Girls, if you aren’t a whippet, don’t buy them. It’s okay, I can’t wear them either. If you feel bad we can have a hot chocolate together and sob about airbrushing in the media and it’s effect on women’s body image.

Besides, it’s my experience that we are nastier to ourselves than the opposite sex is. I have spoken to my male friends and they all assure me that we notice soft spots more than they do. Basically, the thought process going through their head as they grab your hips like a wild animal during that moment is not, how much chocolate has she been eating? but more asjkfserlkvuhvsdflgvjr-FUCK!!…zzzzzzzzzz

That’s phonetic spelling, by the way.

Normally I have a moderately healthy body image. Some days I feel like Greta the Girl Gremlin and others I get delusional and feel like Eva Mendes. Funnily enough, both occur after 4.5 glasses of red wine. Most days though, I sit in the middle and don’t waste energy beating myself up.

Especially when I can beat myself up for many other idiotic and gimpish things that I do on a daily basis.


I’m going to a tropical country.

And I haven’t got a swimsuit.

Which means.


Bikini shopping.

There are three things guaranteed to make women feel bad about themselves: bathroom scales, comparing yourself to a celebrity and buying a new swimsuit.

The last bikini I bought was in 2005.

I’m not kidding. Nearly a decade ago.

In the past eight years, I have gotten more body piercings than new bikinis. I’m running 3:1. Add tattoos to the mix and it cranks up to 4:1. I’m not saying that I hate bikini shopping, I’m just saying that I’d rather stick sterilised needles into my body than examine my figure in a confined space with fluorescent lighting.

Bikini shopping sucks. Nothing ever looks right, and I don’t do frills, bright colours, florals, underwire cups, boyleg shorts, tie bottoms, anything with gold on it, or bandeau tops.

Which rules out everything.

My last bikini was awesome. It fit, it flattered, the colour was right…but the old girl was in her autumn years. She’d had a good life- travelling from Cairns to Vanutau to Thailand, but now she was wrinkly and baggy, tired, blind and demented. She had to be put to sleep, then cremated and kept in a jar on my bookshelf with her name- Mareid- carved into it.

Actually, I’m being colourful. The truth is that I developed a fondness for the gym and figured that buying a bikini may not be so awful after all. In other words, I threw it out.


Then I went overseas and Ate. Pray. Ate. myself into a premature diabetic coma.

I am telling myself, mantra like: it’s fine, CC. You aren’t overweight. You look like an average female. Stop being neurotic and go.

I haven’t yet.

I have to drink 4.5 glasses of red wine, then, depending on who I feel like, I may consider it.

The Dutch Ride Side-Saddle

22 Nov

I was back in Amsterdam, drinking beers and picking apart Night and Day with The Kiwi when the Shooters Bar was first mentioned. It was a sort of travellers Mecca: cheap, fun, lax RSA and serving nothing but shooters.

With a gleam in his eye, The Kiwi spoke of flaming shots deftly lit with blowtorches; of absinthe fumes hoovered up through a straw; of blonde bartenders flairing with laconic ease. Suitably entranced, I agreed to go after his water polo practice the following evening.

The Kiwi returned from practice at 1130pm, and as we were walking to the tram stop we were fortunate enough to see the last one to the city speed by.
He checked his phone, “Well, the good news is that it’s only an 107 minute walk.”
Neither of us had money for a taxi. Staying in wasn’t an option as the beer had been consumed. The siren song of flaming absinthe called and as I smoked I considered our options. Finally I said, “Hang on a minute, you have a bike don’t you?”
He cracked a grin. He had been sold one by a junkie for 30€ two days before.
“Why don’t we ride the bike in?”
He pulled it out and I slid on the back. He laughed. Apparently the Dutch ride side-saddle.
I frowned and jumped off.
“No! I’m not saying you should.”
I remarked that I had never been doubled on the back of a bicycle.
“I’ve never doubled anyone.”
Oh goody.

It’s 2 degrees, 1230am and I’m sitting on the uncomfortable metal parcel shelf of an old green bike, clinging to The Kiwi for dear life, a flashing light attached to the back of my jacket. There are no foot pegs, so everything south of my chest is clenched as I tried to keep my feet out of the spokes but off the ground.
Neither of us knew exactly where to go, and we inevitably got lost several times. As he huffed and puffed us back up a hill, I scolded him.
“Let this be a lesson to you. Next time, don’t pick up the tall, curvy backpacker. Pick up the 40kg waif, your quads will thank you.”
I’d been existing on a steady diet of beer, chips slathered in mayonnaise and creamy hot chocolate for a month. Realistically, it’s a miracle that neither of us suffered an aortal haemorrhage during the trip.

We eventually arrived. The Shooters Bar was packed and operating at a suitable level of awesome. The rest of the night was an absinthe blur of dancing, bad pop music, and dubious karaoke choices. Neither of us felt like a bike induced head injury, so we caught the night bus back.

The following morning I found them.

Huge, purple black bruises, the size of the average uncooked rib-eye, marked the inside of my thighs. I can only assume that it was the fucking parcel shelf on that fucking bike. Amsterdam left its mark on me.

Ohh, I thought. This is why the Dutch ride side saddle.

The Fat Chick Fitness Challenge

23 Sep

“I wasn’t always fat, but I have always been unfit.”

These ten words heralded my first feeble attempt at blogging. I reread it recently to discover- between cringing and shrieking at the computer- that it contained enough rough, unpolished diamonds to squeeze out a post.

I wrote this blog under the moniker Eddie- my dad’s nickname for me. My idea was to write a hopefully hilarious post each day summarising my attempts to get fit. It would keep me motivated and accountable. I’d be writing again. It would get me away from Funny or Die when work was quiet. It would be, in short, a fucking good idea.

It crashed and burned quite quickly.

I ran out of funny ways to say, ‘and then I ran out of breath’.

As I describe what transpires, one should note that I was about fifteen kilos heavier than I am now, dreadfully unfit, and with a lot of fucked-up ideas about food and dieting. It was written when I was pushing myself to the brink and everyone in my life was copping the sharp end of my tongue. I was studying and working both full time. My marriage was in trouble. Graves Disease had turned my thyroid gland renegade, so even my own body had turned against me.*Sob* I had been hospitalised for complications that arose from this. Basically, life was a gigantic shit storm and it seemed like sunshine would never return.

I know. We should all feel sorry for the whiny, self indulgent, little white girl.

To try and regain some control, I found myself a hard ass dietician/ personal trainer who I nicknamed Cobra. Together, we meandered hand-in-hand down the labyrinthian path to physical fitness.

“My attempt to get fit is not unlike me trying to teach my dog the Thriller dance: cute to behold, but ultimately time consuming and futile…”

My first post included my start weight and measurements.

Fuck. A. Duck.

I ask myself: Why, CC, why?

I can’t imagine what drove me to do something so masochistic. I put the centimetre circumference of my fat ass up in cyberspace. Thank God the webpage got no traffic. I may be lighter, but I still do, and always will, have a big, round bum.

I set a goal weight and fitness goal- both ambitious. Very ambitious, actually. I will opt to walk through fire over stepping on the scales, but I’m sure that I am still heavier than that goal weight. By a lot. *Sob*

Cobra’s first challenge was a 30 minute walk/ run. It didn’t go well. My dog wound up dragging me home like a Marayong Malamute. I crawled up the stairs, fell into the shower and:

“I couldn’t get the right temperature. I wanted tepid refreshment. I got intermittent bursts of hot and cold water until I gave up and hysterically screamed at the shower head: ‘God damn you. Have you just run? No, you haven’t. You’re just a fucking shower head. Fuck you! You can’t run. You don’t even have fucking consciousness. Asshole. So why, WHY, are you fucking with me? I won’t take it. I am enlightened. Enlightened, you hear? Fuck. FUCK. FUCK!! Cunt monkey.'”

The following day I was predictably sore. I tried doing the “standard level of fitness” exercises Cobra had prescribed. I collapsed, cried and kicked the pool table when I couldn’t do ten push ups.

The next post started with: “I think I’ve broken something…”

In the one after that, I tried to jump rope. I compared myself to My Little Pony on crack, then mused about using my pink skipping rope to hang myself from the garage rafters instead. This was followed by the detailed description of a dream where I was eating a chocolate sundae alone on a life raft, adrift at sea. Hmmm.

Shortly after this I got drunk. Very drunk. You see, when you put ‘massive restriction of food’ into a blender with ‘bottle of vodka’ and add a dash of ‘bored at home’, you come up with an “I’d like to apologise to my neighbours” smoothie.

I woke up on the couch with leaves in my hair. Stumbling into the kitchen found a broken house plant, and an Eddie-sized hole in the wall behind it.

“I must have blacked out after the tenth vodka gimlet. HubbyBear returned home at 3am to find me comatose on the couch, covered with enough greenery to look like I was trying to hunt Predator. Buffy the Vampire Slayer blared in the background. When HB tried to rouse me, I barked like a dog, proclaimed, ‘warriors sleep in the field’, and promptly began snoring again.”

The next few posts are incredibly boring. But the blog picks up again with a post titled Two Guys, a Girl, and a Fitness Challenge.

HubbyBear surprised me one afternoon. You see, watching me limp through life with burning quad muscles had inspired him. He looked up the Ryan Reynold’s Blade Trinity workout plan; bought himself $230 worth of protein powder, creatine, muscle juice, vitamins, supplements, and protein bars and embarked on his own fitness challenge. So we could bond over it.



Mine was cheaper.

Just saying.

I’m reasonably competitive, and we egged each other on. Our other problems meant we embraced our goals with manic zeal, and in doing so, discovered a questionable way to reconnect. The post culminated with me charging into our room, post workout, leaping on the bed, and jumping up and down like a four year old:

“Morning, baby! I just went for a run, or a run walk, hmm, maybe I can call it a ralk. Are you awake? Are you going to work out today? Are you going to do the Ryan Reynolds chest program? You know, I was reading an article on Ryan Reynolds’ diet for Blade 3 and apparently Ryan Reynolds combines lean protein with good fats and Ryan Reynolds’ trainer suggests that the creatine should be consumed…”

Okay, so the conversation is grossly exaggerated, but I did charge in and jump on the bed as the poor bastard tried to sleep.

The next blog post was titled Dozy Eddie the Half-Time Fitness Freak, and inexplicably contains:

“I think I could pick my husband’s dick out of a line up of every other dick in the world.”

No, I’m not sure either.

I finish up my blogging expedition by complaining about sprint training.


Get the laureate ready.

I gave up The Fat Chick Fitness Challenge shortly after.

I drowned in Baskin Robbins.

Luckily, in the years that have passed and the grey hairs that have multiplied, I have learnt to exist in the middle rather than in extremes. Vodka is no longer a valid dinner food, and I haven’t used the words Ryan and Reynolds together in a sentence for a very long time. I am no longer obsessed, which is a relief- if only to my quads.

Now, my motivation to exercise is not aesthetic. Emotion and food are no longer interchangeable and I generally like the skin I’m in now, flaws and all. I am grateful to have a body that works well most of the time, and I try to respect it. I have seen some heartbreaking stuff in my time as a nurse, working in a spinal rehab ward put things into perspective. I have grown fond of my big, round bum, because it supports two legs that carry me briskly to and from each ridiculous situation that I find myself in.

This blog is self deprecating, and I will happily take the piss out of myself and the stupid shit I do, but reading between the lines of that blog was a bit disturbing. I was in a fucked-up mindset back then. I may be labouring under a delusion here, but I tend to think of myself now as a content, quirky mess; instead of something awful that needs to change. Turning thirty does have its benefits. You start to give up on who you think you should be and start accepting who you are, big, round bum and all.

And if I ever join a travelling circus, I think I’ll call myself Dozy Eddie the Half-Time Fitness Freak. It has a ring to it, don’t you think?

Mon Chat Splash

20 Sep


You may hate me by the end of this post.

When I don’t work out, I tend to get moody.

I hate getting grumpy. It’s always in the back of my mind that the men around me may be thinking: She must be having her period. Keep away, she’s probably irrational. You know they can’t wash their hair while they are on the rag? It’s true. And, if they swim at the beach they can be attacked by a shark. Uh-oh, she’s glaring at us. Quick, throw chocolate at her before she starts crying, then tell her she’s prettier than other girls and give her money to go shoe shopping. That will make her happy.

Apologies to my male friends. I don’t really think that. I hope you don’t either. *pointed glance*

Anyway, I don’t get PMS, but if I can’t jog on the treadmill whilst Ça Plane Pour Moi plays in the background, I get a bit cranky.

That song is perfect to run to. It’s annoying, repetitive, inane, and lame; but it is perfect to run to.

Ça Plane Pour Moi….

Most of the music I exercise to is the utter shit that they play in Western Suburbs nightclubs. Not cool electronica, the radio friendly stuff. In these songs there’s usually a break where something quiet and synthy plays. This is the time where you and your girlfriends pause in your little circle of oxytocin, your clutches in a heap on the floor. You fan your face and grin maniacally through clenched teeth, absolutely off your chops on endorphins and life and happiness and strobe lights, enhanced by thirteen vodka raspberries. The beat kicks in, and the booty shaking continues. When running, this break is the perfect spot to slow down to a walk and give your tortured, black, ex-smokers lungs a rest before launching back into it.

Unless you are listening to: Ça Plane Pour Moi, that is.

No break in that. It’s three minutes of vacuous nonsense, pumping through my iPod headphones at 162bpm.

Ça Plane Pour Moi….

I had no idea what the song was about. I typed it into Google translate which told me that it literally translated to: this flat for me. I would thump along the treadmill like a hamster on a wheel, merrily singing along in my head: This flat for me. This flat for me. This flat for me me me me me me, this flat for me. Oooo-weeee-oooo-ooo.

Unfortunately, said translation is wrong, and I’m glad that I don’t have the breath to run and sing.

Anyway, it had been a week since I had worked out and I began getting stroppy at work. Luckily, I can keep it together when I have the shits. I just get quiet, and I’ve been told I can have a face like thunder. This particular day, I may have been less than sunny to the cleaner who constantly jokes about my being single. The jokes are like me some days: old, tired and not funny anymore. Usually, I force a laugh and make a flippant comment: ‘Oh, boys are just trouble! Tehehe!’ But when I’m withdrawing from endorphins like a junkie, the words on the tip of my tongue are: Yes, I’m fucking single, imagine that. Either stick me in a cage and charge admission or shut the fuck up about it.

I should have said that- he might have offered me chocolate. Instead, I went quiet and a few grey clouds blew across my face. I hightailed it to the gym after work. I used the hip adductor machine. The one Greg Giraldo refers to it as The Twat Spreader. You know the one, the don’t-make-eye-contact machine. I have a fantasy that its going to turn me into Xenia Onatopp. Mwahaha.

Ça Plane Pour Moi….

Anyway, I have never embraced physical fitness. I’m atomically clumsy and ridiculously uncoordinated- an interesting combination to float through life with. And, with the exception of martial arts, I was never into sport.

I used to periodically flip through my mother’s old Who magazines. I’d get inspired by a ‘My Best Body Ever!’ special, often read whilst munching on a Milky Bar. The proud, grimacing celebrity seemed to scream: You can do this, too! Yes, my weight loss was largely due to black coffee, cigarettes and cocaine. Yes, I have a personal chef on call 24 hrs to whip up whatever vegan abomination I opt to cram into my malnourished mouth, and I have the time to exercise with my personal trainer for half of my day, but ignore that. Subscribe to unattainable ideals of beauty. You can look like a whippet, too. It’s sexy! You don’t need to ovulate. You aren’t pretty enough as you are. You need to change and consume and drive this whole bullshit industry along because a lot of old, fat businessmen have a lot of money invested in your unhappiness.

That’s just me trying cynicism on for size.

The space between reading the article and feeling inspired; and giving up by diving head first into a vat of melted chocolate, usually went like this:
Decide: Diet. Fitness. Yes. Now is the time. Just do it. You are what you eat. Other overused idioms. Let’s go.
“Husband! We are no longer stocking chocolate or treats in the house.”
Argument ensues. Husband shrieks and demands sugar. Husband does not wish to diet. Husband wishes to gain weight.
Wife relents and allows chocolate on the condition that husband finds suitable hiding spot.
Wife has night at home. Wife is alone. Wife works out, then watches movie.
Wife gets peckish. Eats dry rice cakes x2.
Wants chocolate.
Ignores desire.
Chews fingernails.
Taps foot.
Eats fruit.
Desire for chocolate grows.
Wife enters kitchen and begins tearing it apart like a feral Tasmanian devil. Chocolate eventually located behind bag of potatoes.
Wife consumes ALL of chocolate.
Wife curses husband for having unimaginative hiding spots. Husband a foot taller than wife, couldn’t he hide it where she can’t see it?
Wife feels sick.
Sugar remorse begins.
Wife drives to shop and replaces husband’s chocolate.
Repeat the following day.

Fun times.

This year, however, I started working in a job where a degree of strength and fitness is handy. I half heatedly started going to the gym and now I’m a bit hooked. I fear I’m turning into Richard Simmons.

Ça Plane Pour Moi….

Do you have that song in your head yet? My goal with this post was to drive an annoying, obscure, 1970’s pop song into your head like a coffin nail.

Ça plane pour moi….

That is why you may hate me. You probably assumed that I was going to go on a smug, ‘I run therefore I’m superior’ rant. Nope. Just this: Ooo-weeee-oooo-oooo. Ça Plane Pour Moi….