Tag Archives: humour

Anything, But Not Grateful!

Freeform thoughts,

insecureMy friend’s daughter had her confidence knocked big time at a Christmas party this weekend – she’s quite a curvy girl, but definitely in a ‘curves you’d kill for’ hourglass kind of way. She’s young, gorgeous, and to be honest if she was my daughter she’d be locked in a tower until she was at least forty. There’s a bloke in the mix who she has a bit of a soft spot for – actually she’s got the raging hots for him, I was being discreet – so she was gearing up for a bit of a flirt and maybe a moment under the mistletoe you know?

Off she went, feeling really giddy. And within ten minutes of arriving at the party, a thoughtless catty comment made by one of her so-called friends about the way she looked ruined her whole night. I could have wept for her as my friend was telling me about it, because like many of you guys I’m sure, I’ve been there.

She doesn’t see what we all see, when she looks in the mirror. I look at her and I see flawless peachy skin and an amazing smile. I see a girl with boobs to die for and a proper waist, and yet all she sees when she looks in the mirror is fat. To put it into perspective, I’ve got more fat on my earlobes than she has on her body.

When I look back at my own teenage years, I often wonder how different my life might have been if I’d grown up in a hot body. I mean don’t get me wrong, I was a proper party animal when I was younger, and I didn’t suffer from a lack of confidence per se, but, I always felt like a munter at the side of my skinny string bean friends, like the fat funny one who was good for a laugh but not, you know, fanciable.

At the end of the night when it got to slow dance time, all the girls used to stand around the dance floor looking like they couldn’t be arsed with the boy thing, and didn’t care that they hadn’t yet been invited to shuffle around in circles and have a quick snog. And yet one by one the hot girls all got picked off by the hot boys, the reasonably attractive girls got picked off by the reasonably attractive boys, and then there were only swamp donkeys left, feeling a little bit awkward, with both sexes furtively weighing up their remaining options.

I used to fall somewhere in the middle, you know? I had a pretty face but I filled my disco pants a bit too well to be an A-lister. Mostly my dancing partners were definitely to the left of hot, but you know it was generally quite dark so it didn’t matter too much, in the moment. But the point I’m making is, because I didn’t feel confident about the way I looked, the overwhelming feeling I got whenever someone asked me to dance was grateful. And let me tell you that’s not how you want to feel when it comes to members of the opposite sex.

Feeling grateful that someone picked you leads to a whole world of pain…you put up with more, and overlook things which should set alarm bells clanging because you know, he likes you and that’s good, right? You settle. Usually for someone who’s not worthy of you…here speaketh the voice of experience.

When I look back, I wasn’t fat really, not fat like now fat. I mean yes, I filled those disco pants a bit too well but not on an industrial scale. Trust me, I wish I was the same size now as I was when I thought I was fat the first time around…nothing quite like the twenty twenty vision of hindsight hmm?

Anyway…I’m happy to report that my friend’s girl got her man, well that is to say he texted her the next day and apparently told her he’d thought she’d looked ‘sick’ the night before. I’m reliably informed that these days that is a compliment…I shall file that away for future reference because under normal circumstances if anyone texted that to me they’d be asking for a smack in the chops 🙂

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Doing It The Skinny Girl Way

Diet update, In the here & now, , ,

Smallest-Canepe-ASDA

Well, that’s December’s cherry well and truly popped…I had my first Christmas dinner of the season last night, and very nice it was too. It was a work function, an afternoon working session rounded off by a chance to kick back and relax with some colleagues over food and a few drinks. I vaguely remember I had to get my menu choices in a couple of weeks ago, and for the life of me I couldn’t remember what I’d ordered, but as it turns out that didn’t matter – someone had helpfully written everyone’s menu choice on their place cards.

That’s a great system, although I suspect the old me would have been a bit less impressed. I mean, hands up who hasn’t pretended they’d ordered what looks like the tastiest option when the plates start coming out…? This is mine..? No, there’s been a mistake, I ordered one of those ones…and if, you know that involved pointing to the plate with the most generous helping of whatever, well, that was purely a happy accident.

Anyway, no room for mistakes last night. With my halo in place and shining brightly I’d ordered melon for my starter…not a dinner option made by anyone, ever, unless they are watching their waistline. I mean don’t get me wrong, I LOVE melon…I’ve eaten two of them this week. But when I eat melon, I cut off the skin, chop it into big wedges and get stuck in.

Last night, it was beautifully arranged in the middle of the plate, fanned out with an artistic pea-sized smear of something sweet and red. I’m not kidding though, when I tell you that a good 90% of the plate was lacking the presence of melon. It’s like they were overwhelmed by demand and had to cut 100 portions from one melon. I looked around the table with envious eyes at the people who were tucking into filo goats cheese parcels with cranberry coulis, and pate with french toast.

I did feel better when my eyes landed on a bona fide skinny string bean colleague, who was the only other person on my table who’d chosen melon. Like me! I couldn’t help feeling elated because I was doing it the skinny girl way. Except I wasn’t, not really.

Every time I looked across the table she was either delicately cutting a piece off, or chewing, or dipping a bit of melon in the red pea sized smear…she made it last for like 15 minutes. Me? Two bites and the melon was history. 100% of my plate was a melon-free zone before she’d even decided which centimetre of melon to go in for first.

For my main course I’d ordered turkey with all the trimmings, and it was yummy. It’s always good to be reminded what normal portions look like – small, is what they look like to me if I’m being honest. But having said that, I didn’t over-indulge…chance would have been a fine thing, but it was nice not to be tested. Had there been any kind of test, I would have passed – by default – with flying colours, because I’m here to tell you if there was more than 400 calories on that plate I’ll bare my arse to the world.

I’d ordered the cheese board to finish with, for a number of reasons…firstly it came with grapes, and that’s healthy, right? Secondly there was only two cheeses mentioned, one of which was brie which I don’t like, so compared to the other options of Christmas pudding, chocolate tart or eton mess it seemed like the safest one. And it was. Two crackers and a matchbox sized serving of really tasty cheese with the six grapes on offer was just about perfect. Small, but perfect.

Incidentally, the bloke sat beside me – who had a very well cultivated mid-section – said the Christmas pudding wasn’t the best he’d eaten. He still almost took the pattern off the plate in his eagerness to finish it all though. It’s a good job I wasn’t drinking…a couple of glasses of fizz inside me and I might have invited him to join the posse.

So, I drove home feeling very smug. To be fair, there was very limited opportunity for the asshole in my mind to talk me into anything. My sensible choices were made way ahead of time, but I still I resisted the coffee and mince pies afterwards…get me, a regular little goody two shoes. Mind you, tonight might be a bit different…tonight’s invitation involves a different set of work friends, beer and something described by the host as dirty pizza. Much harder to resist. But you know I’m on it 🙂

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Gingerbread Meh

In the here & now, ,

gingerI braved the vile weather at lunchtime and popped down to the shop – like an almighty plonker I’d made lunch and then realised halfway to work that I’d left it on the kitchen counter. Duh. But it didn’t matter too much, there’s a lovely deli at the shop near where I work so I popped in there instead, and whilst I was there I couldn’t help noticing the promotional baskets at the end of the aisles…Christmas seems to have arrived with a vengeance!

It made me smile, especially since I already know that this is the month where every aisle in every store is going to be bursting at the seams with Christmas goodies, and boobytraps designed to make the wheels come off any self-respecting food plan. But what jumped out at me was the box of ginger viennese whirls…and I knew I was lost. Firstly, ginger is one of my favourite winter spices…cooked in savoury dishes, in cakes, as a flavouring in coffee…I love it’s warm and spicy aroma, and the tongue tingle. And I’m also partial to the melt-in-the-mouth awesomeness of a viennese whirl.

Now, I’m not sure what rotten sod decided to combine these two taste sensations and make them a new thing when I’m on a diet…I mean that’s just bloody unfair, right? However, on the basis that I’m following weight watchers, where pretty much anything goes as long as it’s counted, I was allowed. I did the maths, four points that I could afford to spend…happy days, before I knew it I was hot-footing it back to the office with a box of them nestling on the passenger seat next to me, feeling as giddy as a virgin on prom night.

So, we ate lunch on the run…sort of a working lunch, our small but perfectly formed team of six sitting around the meeting table, chatting through our respective updates…all the time the box of six gingerbread whirls were sitting there just begging to be eaten. I barely tasted my salad – said, as if anyone tastes salad, ever – all I could think about was the way in which I’d have four, maybe five bites’ worth of crumbly, gingery scrumptiousness to go with my post-lunch coffee.

I imagined the sweetness of the buttercream filling and wondered what it would be flavoured with. Orange..? Vanilla..? Maybe even lemon….big yum. All good with ginger, in my humble foodie opinion. The anticipation almost killed me.

Shall I tell you what the filling tasted of…? Nothing. The actual ginger whirl wasn’t much better…I swear, I was so ready to be blown away. The MMMmmmmm….was poised and ready to burst forth as I took my first bite but it fizzled out before it got going…it didn’t even merit a Mmm. Not even close. I couldn’t bring myself to award a single M.

So lets have a pop quiz…what did I do, after eating the first disappointing bite..? One point consumed remember, in that one mouthful of vaguely spicy sawdust held together with gooey white stuff flavoured with…oh yes that’s right, nothing! Did I put it to one side?

No, of course not. I had another bite. WTF? Was I checking to see if the next one was better..? Like it’d improved since bite one..? It hadn’t. So I’m going to set it aside now, right? I mean, I’m two points in and I don’t like it.

Bite three and I’d cottoned on to the fact that it tasted of MDF and as I polished off bite four it occurred to me that I need only have wasted one precious point…I could have saved three by chucking this impostor of a Christmas treat straight into the bin. On reflection it’s like I was SO determined to enjoy it, I hoovered it all up anyway and then declared it inedible. As I wiped the crumbs off my lips.

Times like this, I realise I have a way to go…

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Police, Fire, Ambulance, Me.

Biggest struggles, Freeform thoughts, ,

help

Are you good in a crisis? I am – I sort of come into my own. I reckon lots of my friends would be able to give you examples of me mopping up tears, putting band aids on broken hearts and dispensing the occasional nugget of wisdom over the years. It’s just kind of what I do. I’ve got one or two friends who, I’m not going to lie, have sometimes made my heart sink when I’ve seen their number come up on my caller ID. Because I just knew that it was going to be another drama, which would be really similar to the last one, and which I’d have to live through with them in glorious Technicolor as they settled down to give me every last detail.

One friend in particular, who I’m not really in touch with any more was especially great at calling me somewhere north of midnight on at least two Saturdays each month, after a blazing row with her boyfriend. Between slurps of wine, she’d replay his latest transgression and agonise over what she should do, what it meant, what he might do next, what she should do next, why her…you know the story. I could have answered all those questions right off the bat as it happens – he’s a twat. Get rid of him. The End.

I didn’t, of course. I listened…because that’s what friends do, right? I was proud of the fact that my friends knew they could come to me when they needed support. It was like a badge of honour you know? Besides, I was sure they’d do the same for me…except I never tested the theory. Ah hang on a minute, there was one time when I forgot to put the number five guard back on the hair clippers after cleaning them, and shaved a stripe up the back of my little boy’s head one Sunday night when he was about ten.

Not an age where a wonky bald stripe is a cool thing to have let’s be honest. A very good friend of mine managed to rustle up an emergency hairdresser from her contacts list within thirty minutes and disaster was, if not averted certainly disguised very well…cut in I think she called it.  I mean it still looked ridiculous but he didn’t have to wear the hat for quite as long as he would’ve had to otherwise. I never tested the theory more widely than that though. I’m more of a story-teller after the event, with some wry humour chucked in for good measure.

It was only years later, during a particularly enlightening therapy session with my hooky spooky magic lady that she gently steered me around to the realisation that by constantly acting as the rescuer, the fourth emergency service to my friends if you like, I was able to focus on everyone else’s issues and in the meantime mine remained unresolved. I was a classic case apparently. Who knew?

I need to be needed. It’s one of my things you know?  It’s always felt like an anchor to keep me connected to the people who matter to me. But when the shit hits the fan in my life, I don’t reach out for help, ever. I just get on with it. I cope. Then I eat my feelings, get a bit fatter and continue looking out for everyone else. Essentially I deny my friends the opportunity to support me. And when you put it like that, how is that a balanced friendship? It’s not…it can’t be.

The people in my life who love me, would support me till the end of time, if I allowed them to. I’d have no need to medicate things which hurt me with food. I could be the one on the phone at 3am, hot tears and snot mingling with cabernet sauvignon as I hiccupped my way through the action replay of my own drama in glorious Technicolor whilst they lost the will to live, and dispensed words of wisdom.

Thing is, it’s one thing recognising that, and another thing doing it, right? Once an island, always an island…I might need to work on that a while longer 🙂

 

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The Three Second Rule

Freeform thoughts, Reflections on past times, , ,

cake1Let’s talk about the three second rule – for the un-initiated, the three second rule applies when you drop a piece of food on the floor…if it stays there for less than three seconds, it is deemed acceptable to pick it up and eat it after first blowing on it or wiping it with your sleeve. It’s a rule most fat girls have in their kit bag,  along with toddlers who don’t care who dropped what and when, if it’s on the floor it’s fair game.

Like any rule worth it’s salt, it can be ignored…I mean obviously if you dropped something sticky in a pile of freshly mown grass you’re probably going to look at it and decide to bow out gracefully. But as a fat girl with a broken food filter, if I can possibly make the rule apply, I will.  The rule can even be extended or amended under the right circumstances. In my house for example, it’s a two second rule, because I have a three second dog and if you snooze, you lose.

Now, at first look you think, hmm…it largely depends on where you drop it. If you drop it at home, where you know it’s clean or at least you know which bits of the floor are clean, it’s a safer bet. At the very least, there are fewer folk likely to look at you with a combination of pity and disgust as you scrat around on the floor chasing after the morsel of whatever it is that you’ve dropped. Outside the home might be a bit more…icky.

What made this spring to mind was a recent incident on my trip. Bearing in mind, bar the odd birthday cake-related dilemma I had been really bloody careful with my food choices (evidenced by a one pound loss whilst I was away, I forgot to mention that yesterday in my haste to have a rant about the gremlins!) and so when we arrived at the airport to come home I’d mooched perfume and stuff in the duty free shop but avoided any goodies which might have been too hard to resist. My skinny string bean friend on the other hand had bought a massive bag of cheese flavoured crispy bugle thingies which under normal circumstances would have been right up my alley.

I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said I covertly watched every one of those little pieces of paradise pass her lips in the same way that my pooch sits in his bed and quietly drools his way through human suppertime whenever we’re eating. She offered the bag around…a couple of people took a handful, one or two people declined, and then it was my turn. Would you like some..?

Hell would I! What I wanted to do was to take the bag out of her hands, straighten it up, tip it up and pour the entire contents down my neck. What I really wanted to do, encouraged by the asshole in my mind was to run back through the departure lounge, go into the shop and empty their shelves of these orbs of cheesiness, shoving them all into my hand luggage so I could munch them for the entire duration of our ten hour flight home.

But no…I was in control. Adjusting my halo, I took one. Said thank you and admired the way it looked…smelled it in anticipation.  It smelled so cheesy my mouth was twitching. And then I dropped it. On the floor. In the departure lounge, where lots of people had walked, trolley wheels had criss-crossed the carpet tiles all day long, and there were bound to be nasties lurking in their hundreds of dirty thousands. The moment had gone…the offered bag had moved on, and my cheesy bugle sat there on the floor just crying to be eaten. I shit you not I could have wept at the injustice of it.

In the three seconds I had to react, I looked, in what felt like slow motion at all the people buzzing around…had anyone noticed? Would anybody notice if I picked it up off the floor and put it in my mouth..? If they did, what would they think? And then I saw her…the skinny-string-bean-glamour-puss flight attendant who looked like she’d never eaten a cheesy bugle in her life. She saw. So it had to stay there. I kicked it under my chair with a casual sweep of my foot, looking for all the world like it was nothing.

And you don’t need me to tell you that I thought about that cheesy bugle all the way home 🙁

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