Tag Archives: humour

Buns Of Steel

In the here & now, , , ,

buns

So the coffin-sized cardboard box which got delivered at the weekend amid much excitement is no longer posing as a one-box-obstacle-course in my kitchen thanks to my friend and knight in shining armour, who popped in to work his magic last night after work. Under my close supervision – I was in charge of removing plastic wrapping and polystyrene – he effortlessly assembled the gleaming beast of a cross-trainer which is now firmly in-situ, plugged in and ready to make me hurt.

After he’d left last night I spent a bit of time reading the instructions, you know so I can get the most out of my workouts…okay lets be honest, to make sure I understand how to put it on the easiest setting 🙂 Hey, I need to ease myself in gently, right? I was more than a little bit alarmed to note their disclaimer that ‘too much exercise could injure your body or can cause dead’. Best go a bit steady then chaps.

I did a quick few steps on it last night, not in a serious workout kind of way…I was wearing my slippers at the time, and having moved it around the bedroom with the help of my boy into several different spots until I was happy with the feng shui (otherwise known as making sure it didn’t obscure the view of the TV from my bed) I felt like I’d spent two hours in the gym already, damn thing weighs a ton.

But I went to sleep with much anticipation of waking up this morning, leaping out of bed and pulling on my gear so I could crack on with an invigorating hour of exercise to set me up for the day. I’ve bought new trainers and everything, which even match the colour of the frame on this thing. I’m telling you, woman and machine in perfect symmetry, how on earth could it result in anything other than poetry in motion?

So, this morning then…well. My new trainers fitted. Sadly the same can’t be said for my exercise gear, which to be fair hasn’t seen the light of day since God was a lad. I mean I know lycra is stretchy but it’s apparently not quite that stretchy. Naked it is then. Well, naked with new trainers. It’s ok, the shutters were closed and there was only me and the dog, who was watching me quizzically from a safe distance…come on, you can’t blame him…he still remembers the power plate.

After two false starts, when I couldn’t seem to get it on the easiest setting only to discover that it was already on the easiest setting, the penny started to drop that this might not be quite the walk in the park that I’d imagined. I altered the timer to ten minutes from the hour that I’d brazenly keyed in to start with, and off I went.

One minute in and we’re doing okay…feeling it a bit in the legs but it’s all good. Two minutes in I’ve noticed that if I look up I can see my reflection in the TV which is directly in front of me…let’s not dwell on that other than to say I need some new exercise duds, to avoid any mental scarring which might result from being exposed to this image ever again.

Three minutes in and I’m starting to hurt. The asshole in my mind has sprung into action and he’s busy telling me that I’ve done enough…don’t overdo it on your first attempt, you must have burned off two thousand calories by now, so why don’t you go downstairs and make bacon, you’ve earned it! Four minutes in and I’m seriously starting to think that this might actually result in dead.

I made it to five minutes. And then I made it to the bed, and laid there for a bit wondering what just happened. Eventually I made it downstairs to the kitchen, on legs made of rubber, and as I sit here typing this I can’t help looking across at the fruit bowl, and wondering just how many grapes I could eat with the seven fucking calories I just burned. SEVEN!!! I could have earned more picking my nose.

Now, my promise to you is that I will complete that other five minutes at some point today. I’m going to take the dog out for a good walk in a minute, and isn’t that going to be an interesting experience on rubber legs. I haven’t quit…I’ve just paused. And I’m starting to think that perhaps I won’t have buns of steel by Friday. But no quitters here 🙂

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Leftovers..? All Yours Sweetheart.

In the here & now, , , , ,

leftovers

Depending on what time I’ve hauled my sorry ass out of bed on Boxing Day in the past has largely dictated whether I’ve woken up thinking about leftovers, or smelling them. I think it’s fair to say that both my son and I are fully-paid-up card-carrying members of the leftover Christmas food fan club, in fact I might even go as far as to say that between us we’ve probably regarded it as the highlight of Boxing Day.

I can recall more occasions than I’m comfortable admitting to where we’ve pitted our wits against each other in the ‘who gets to the leftover pigs in blankets first’ race, and I’m here to tell you that the sound of the microwave being activated downstairs in the kitchen on Boxing Day morning has historically invoked the kind of reaction that alarm clock manufacturers the world over could only dream about. You see, whoever gets to the tupperware first is in charge of allocation…otherwise known as who gets what. And if that’s not you, damn straight you’d better get there and supervise, so you get your fair share.

So, when my son found out that he had to work on Boxing Day this year, as you might imagine, he was more than a little bit pissed off. To be fair, he wasn’t worried about working as such, I mean why would he…there’s no contractual obligation to work so it’s triple time thank you very much. But jockeying for space with the dollar signs in his eyes was the vision of coming home to pillaged tupperware containing a stringy bit of turkey and the odd unwanted sprout. He was worried that I’d eat Boxing Day whilst his back was turned.

As we were bidding our respective goodnights last night before heading for bed I casually threw it out there that I wasn’t eating any leftovers this year…his face was a picture. The sort of face, I imagine, that you might see on a lottery winner, as the implication of picking those numbers sinks in…well, something close anyway. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ll definitely join in with the turkey, that’s fine…but the crunchy butter-rich sage and onion stuffing balls, the leftover roasties and the crisped up pigs in blankets are all his this year. Although it near kills me to say it, they were yesterday’s treat.

You probably don’t need me to tell you that the asshole in my mind has almost combusted himself into an early grave by jumping up and down trying to change my mind. They’re behind me in the fridge as we speak, and they flirt with me every time I open the fridge door. On a scale of 1-10 I want them to the tune of at least 15, but I’m thinking instead about that size 22 top that I pledged my allegiance to when I got back from Vegas…I remain determined to fit into it on 1st January.

I can’t have both. And one is more important than the other…so I picked that one. And whilst the chatter from the tupperware tubs is driving me bat-shit crazy, I’m happy with my choice.

Today, Boxing Day or not, is the start of a new dieting week. I’m remembering how I worked out a plan to see me through our trip to Dublin, and Christmas, and I’m way beyond proud that I managed to stick to it…I’ve had to dig deep, but I’ve done it and trust me when I say if I could bottle this feeling and sell it, I could retire on the proceeds. And you know what else..? I’m 3lbs down since my last check-in with the bitch in the bathroom.

Epic 🙂

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‘Twas The Night Before Christmas

Freeform thoughts, ,

stocking

Twas the night before Christmas, the cupboards were bare,

the food shop is looming, but why should I care?

I can’t eat the good stuff, the stuff that I crave,

‘cos I’ve promised the posse that I will behave 🙁

The Asshole is laughing, he’s biding his time,

he thinks he’ll persuade me to slip into crime.

I admit it, I’m sulking, my thoughts are not good,

as I think of the things I would eat if I could.

I want cheese balls and ice cream, pralines and cream,

pigs in their blankets, and stuffing supreme.

I’m madder than mad, that the size of my arse

means for this year, and next year my plate will be sparse.

My stocking is empty of chocolate and treats,

in light of the fact that I’m pounding the streets.

to remove all this blubber that covers my bum,

and break out the string bean that I shall become.

It SUCKS that on Christmas I have to be good,

but that’s what I promised to do, if I could.

And do it I will, have no fear of that!

(just forgive me for being a grumpy old twat.)

I’ll scowl at the chocolate, and snarl at the pud,

Stick to lean stuff and green stuff and do what I should.

And after it’s over I’ll grin like a fool

That the Asshole was beaten, and I’m still cool 🙂

Have an awesome Christmas everyone…to my occasional readers, my regular lurkers and all of you who join in the chatter on a daily basis, I couldn’t walk this path on my own so I’m sending lots of love to you all with grateful thanks for your glorious company xxx

holly

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To Me, With Love From Me

In the here & now, , ,

willpower

I’ve been working from home today – I’m very lucky in that respect, when I have no face to face meetings in my diary the type of work I do means I can be just as productive sitting at the little desk in my kitchen as I am in the office. More so, sometimes – I am blessed with more than my fair share of curiosity and I’m very easily distracted. The minute a juicy conversation unfolds in our office my ears tune in of their own accord and drag me away from whatever I’m working on.

So anyway, I’ve just switched off, and I’ve had a much better day than I’d expected to have. When I came down into the kitchen this morning, I took one look at the table and immediately groaned…I might have even said a bad word under my breath. The first thing that greeted me were ten boxes of chocolate biscuits in a big stack, right next to my desk. Recalling times past, I immediately made the assumption that I’d be fighting all day with the asshole in my mind.

Do you want to know how much time I’ve spent resisting temptation..? None. Not a single minute of my day. I mean, I didn’t even really need to flex my willpower muscle you know? It’s like they weren’t even there. I’m more than a little bit baffled. I mean I know that technically they’re not mine, I’ve bought them for my mum to give to the lovely ladies who take such good care of her. But lets be honest, that’s never stopped me in the past.

For example, there have been times when I’ve gone through my boy’s Easter Egg stash like a swarm of locusts and then replaced them all before he noticed, and times when I’ve had to make a nifty detour go buy another Daim cake because I’ve vaporised the one in the fridge that I bought for ‘the family’ during a particularly traumatic episode of Grey’s Anatomy and I didn’t want to have to explain where it’d all gone.

My willpower is an elusive frankly quite strange and bloody annoying phenomenon. Some days it’s completely locked and loaded, and nothing’s getting through. It’s like the fun police you know?  Other days it lets me down big time and without warning by throwing open the door and letting every temptation through without a fight. Take yesterday for example. Epic fail on the willpower front, massive.

Don’t get me wrong, my food choices were all fine, my diet integrity is all intact. The same can’t be said however about resisting the urge to indulge in a little bit of leather love. I made a promise to myself about not buying any more handbags until I’d saved up enough for the new bathroom I am desperate to get installed. Six months I’ve held out with no impulse buys, SIX MONTHS! I fancied a quick mooch on my favourite re-sale site, you know just to have a look…yes, well that never ends well does it? I was still trying to kid myself I was window shopping as I completed checkout. Hello???

Still. If I’ve only got so much willpower to use up equally on all the areas of my life where I need to behave, I’d rather spend it resisting a hob-nob over a handbag any day…and it is Christmas after all. A little bit of birthday money went towards it, and you know what, I’ve been a good girl this year.

Happy Christmas to me, with love from me…I deserve it, right?

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Who, Us?

Freeform thoughts,

robinA strange thing happened yesterday – it all started when I received an email from a very nice lady, saying how much she’d enjoyed reading the blog post on My Fifty Year Fitness Goal, and then asking my advice on a few health-related matters. Now, I can only speak for myself but that’s one of the reasons I love hanging out with you guys….I ask a question and you lot rally around with assorted answers, or one of you asks a question and either me or another one of the posse tries to find a nugget of wisdom to suit the occasion.

I almost flexed my fingers to consult Doctor Google and pass his encyclopaedic knowledge off as my own before throwing her questions out to you guys, but before I did, my thoughts turned to wondering what had led this lady to come knocking on our door for advice. I mean I know we have a few wise old owls in the posse, and between us we’ve been around the dieting block more than a few times but I don’t think any of us would class ourselves as experts in healthy living, right? We’re just all doing the best we can.

So, curiosity piqued, just call me Sherlock, after a bit of clicking left and right it turns out this lady was from a bona fide medical company, you know, with proper doctors and everything. They seem like a friendly bunch – I’ve put a link on my ‘interesting stuff’ page in case any of you need a band aid over the holidays – and they’re getting into the festive spirit by canvassing ideas from as many people as possible about how to stay healthy over the Christmas period so they can have a bit of fun on-line. And obviously our posse are right up there at the top of their list of folk to ask. *Puffs chest out with pride, of course we are, we KNOW stuff!*

How about I start us off..? My best piece of advice is don’t accidentally lick the tip of a 12v battery. I did that once – and before you ask no, I have absolutely no idea why – and straight up singed the hair inside my nose. For a split second I was literally battery powered and my nose didn’t stop stinging for three days. I suspect I still have a bald patch inside my left nostril, so best avoid that if you want to stay fit and healthy.

My second piece of advice is, if it looks slippy outside and you’ve just watched someone execute a triple salchow worthy of an Olympic score of 10 on their way to post a letter, don’t think that nipping over the road to the postbox with your own last minute Christmas cards will be incident free. I’m here to tell you it won’t be. And jumping up quickly before anyone sees you is by no means a guarantee that this time you’re going to stay on your feet for longer than the blink of an eye. I can vouch for that too.

So, posse…over to you. It’s time to gift-wrap those nuggets of wisdom and show the world what wise old beans we really are. Old family recipes which ward off lurgy? Tried and tested methods of shaking off aches and pains..? A strategy to lessen the impact of all those festive excesses, or best hangover cure known to man…whatever words of sage advice you might have to see our virtual compadres through a happy and healthy holiday season, wheel ’em out…the floor is yours 🙂

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