Falling

One of the things about being large is that you fear falling over. It's a forty-fifty-ten mix of panicking that you'll not be able to get back up again without extraneous help; being afraid that there are witnesses laughing at your no doubt attention-grabbing pavement-plant; the dread that you might have seriously hurt something other than your pride.

So... 90% fear of dying from embarrassment, 10% fear of actually, yannow, dying.

I've had a few serious falls in my adult life so far. (The childhood falls through glass doors, off bikes, and from the top of bale forts totally don't count...)

The first was when I was at music college in Birmingham, outside our local pub; although I must point out it was on the way TO, and not coming home from said pub. It was a simple mis-judgement of a pothole that led to me being ambulanced away, my ankle being strapped-up rather firmly, and having to ‘walk' around with crutches for a week.

The second (already richly documented on this blog) version was a tumble down some Portuguese church steps in 2005 in which I broke both the zip of my dress, and my foot.

The third, in 2011, was really just a trip over a kerb-stone and an inelegant land on my right knee on the edge of the self-same kerb-stone. The kicker was that I was at my heaviest, and that innocuous fall gave me unspeakable amounts of pain, and an unresolved haematoma that is still slightly swollen to this day. To say that my right leg from mid-thigh to mid-calf was one massive purple-yellow mess is no exaggeration. I shared the photographic evidence with friends on Ravelry, and one dear friend was so impressed with the incredible colouration that she dyed a skein of yarn in the colours she saw, called it ‘Bruise' and sent it to me!

(I have yet to find the perfect project to show this off in the fashion it truly deserves, so if anyone finds a lovely pattern for a crocheted sling, or perhaps a pretty knitted neck-brace, please do let me know!)

I suspect fear of falling off anything is something that we come across in all walks of life, but I'm slowly learning that if you're so afraid of falling, whether it be off a bike; down some steps; in love; whatever, you'll end up cocooning yourself away from any hint of a trip, sitting in a safe place, by yourself, wondering how life got so boringly, achingly lonely.

Yes, yes, I'm totally speaking for myself.

Lately I've been testing the give on several safety nets of my own, though. Well okay, that sounds like it has been a decision made by myself rather than The Fates giving me a strong nudge in more dangerous directions, but, for example, venturing out onto pathways of a less flat and concrete state and more of a rocky, muddy, hilly state has given more than a tug or two on the threads of my particular tapestry of life.

What have I discovered? Well, for one thing my knees don't seem to mind bending so much these days. Okay, so yes, that discovery was made after slipping in the mud a couple of times and landing on a completely folded knee. You know - like when you kneel completely, sitting back with your heels on your behind. Now, just to let you know, the last time my knees did this without pain (well, apart from the initial ‘ow, I've just fallen' jolt) is before I hit my teenage years. Remember that knee disease? The one that stopped everything athletic and balletic in my life? Yup. No knee-bend with weight on since then. Actually, no real knee-bends of any sort since then.

But how long has it been since that full kneeling-sit pose has been possible? THAT is the question... How long have I been missing out on doing more because I had never even entertained the thought that it might be achievable? Possibly a couple of years if I take into consideration that that's when I started doing knee-strengthening exercises again.

So how long has it been since I didn't feel the fear (quite so much) of trying to do something that might or might not end up with me making a fool of myself? Um... perhaps a month. Why? Because being the clumsy person I am I was too scared to risk it before. I remembered the pain and let that remembered pain weave a web of doubt and dread that held me back from trying anything new. But having slipped and fallen several times in the last month doing things I haven't attempted to do in years and living to tell the tale has given me a new sense of possibility.

Fear of falling isn't enough to stop me any more. Well, it might slow me up a bit, as it is probably a good idea to remember just how much of a clumsy clown I can be, but I'm not going to let it stop me completely any more!

Just remind me I said that when you come to sign the cast on my broken ankle...

The Golden Rule

I know I'll never have what goes for an ideal, Vogue-ready body, and my eye has been too schooled by the media, my mind too clouded by others' opinions of me over time to be content with my reflection, but today I saw a little bit of me that I liked that I never used to like.

It was quite the revelation. I was looking at myself in the mirror, properly, as I do only very occasionally, not usually liking (actually more disliking) what I see, but somehow today I was in the right frame of mind to see something other than the stuff of my bullied-person nightmares.

Let me explain... When you lose weight after being very, very large for most of your life to being merely large, things change. Your body gets a bit confused, and your skin doesn't quite know what to do with itself. Before shedding the weight, your largest organ (yes, that's your skin, I'm not just making this shit up as I go along, you know. Well, not entirely) had been getting on perfectly well, perhaps feeling a put-upon at times, somewhat taut maybe, but apart from the inevitable stretch-marks, it was beautifully wrinkle- and blemish-free.

And then you lose the equivalent of a teenager in weight and everything goes to hell in a handbasket. An ‘average' teenager, I have to say. Not me as a teenager...

...

[As an aside, my Mum was clearing out her airing cupboard the other day, and found an old skirt she made for me when I was maybe fourteen or fifteen. Had it not been too short for my current taste I'd be wearing it now! That was me as a young teenager. Size-wise, pretty much me now. A short, but large, albeit voluptuous, adult. Definitely not your archetypal teenager!!]

...

Some of the put-upon epidermis does eventually tighten itself a little, but mostly it just can't be bothered so just sits there, wondering why things had to change. It's not the loveliest of things, the by-products of losing weight. The romance of weight loss that we are spoon-fed by media, lifestyle hucksters, and diet quacks stops short of revealing the ending. Or the never-ending...

And I've not finished yet. I still have a way to go. But I decided a while back that I'd only go as far as I could cope with the side effects.

And what was the little bit of me that I liked? One of those side-effects... A little concertina of tummy skin. I know, sounds gross, right? Instead of being disappointed at the me I saw in the mirror, I looked at it, and I accepted it as being part of me. And then I realised it represented an achievement I was proud of, and not the left-overs of something I hated. Because I didn't really hate me, not really, I just hated being treated like I should have hated me, amongst other anti-large sentiments, but had gotten into the habit of pre-empting comments, jokes, and sentiments before having them spewed to my face by others first.

By trying to lose weight, though, I did (and still do) feel like I was letting the Size Acceptance movement down by wanting to change myself - the one group of people who are actively fighting to give those of us endowed with larger bodies a fair hearing in the auditorium of life. How could I support something by trying to change the very essence of myself that was needing support? I then realised that it's not fat acceptance that is the key, but the more simple and general ‘Acceptance'.

Acceptance of the belief that everyone is different. Acceptance that it's also okay to change something about yourself by any means you prefer if it has been making you sad, mad, or ill. And accepting that's it's okay *not* to change anything, either, because you're perfectly fine just the way you are. And the reality that wherever you are in your own acceptance the number one thought should be that you must be kind to yourself.

That being said, I am still harder on myself than I should be. I do want to lose more weight, and I can be quite the self-meanie. I want to make good changes for myself and am constantly aware of the struggle to do so. But in saying this, it is in no way a comment on other people, their weight, their methods of being who they want to be, their lifestyles, their anything. How on earth can I hope to be accepted for who I am if I refuse to accept others they way they are? Without trying to come across as all sanctimonious or moralistic, I'm a great believer in treating others how I'd like to be treated myself, and acceptance and kindness must surely take priority?

Conversely, I think it's okay to have things about yourself that you don't like. I reckon that striving for perfection is folly most of the time, but striving to be a better person isn't. Once you realise that perfection is unattainable it can also mean that you might find something about yourself, about others, about life, that you find annoying, or reprehensible, or stupid, or embarrassing, or any number of negative adjectives that spring to mind. Because we are human, after all. There will always be things we don't like, especially about ourselves. But we can stop the self-dislike becoming more pronounced by accepting that this something-we-don't-like exists, instead of trying to fight it into oblivion. For that, at least for me, just emphasises what I don't like even more, and makes it an even bigger mental foe.

So I'm trying to think in different directions. This thing I didn't like about myself turned into something else once I accepted it as part of me, and I realised that disliking it was okay as long as I didn't beat myself up about it too much.

I guess sometimes it doesn't take much to flick the switch from dislike to like as long as we are kind to ourselves, and by extension, accepting of others.

And because some of this post reminded me of this video below, I felt I had to include it!

Sometimes The Ace, Sometimes The Deuces

So, yes, I have put on a little weight since coming back here. It was inevitable. Not having room to exercise, and not really being able to take as many walks as before, it has all made a dent. As has access to Food. With a capital ‘F'. My gods, but the UK is full of food. Good and bad food. But so much of it! (Or it feels as if there is, to my mind at least!!)

But my excuses, well, not that any are actually forthcoming on this particular post apart from the pseudo ones above, are not needed. 

The annoying thing is that I'm heading precariously back in the direction of the mindset of O MY GODS BUT I AM HUGE AND HORRIBLE AND NO-ONE WILL APPRECIATE ME AND OH OH OH I'M A USELESS HUMAN BEING and it is a silly mindset. Silly.

Therefore this post is to affirm how fabulous I am. At least in a couple of things! 

See this? This was in 2005. Portugal, a few days before I broke my foot. Hilarious person, seemingly full of life, always making folk crack up with laughter, trying to ‘make up' for the fact that I am large.

This was in 2015. Still enjoying making people laugh, but not using it so much as a diverting tactic. It seems that clown part of me is a good part, after all!

This was in 2009. I made that dress. I was very proud of it. I have it still, and one day I'll learn the skills to take it in from, I guess, a size 30 down to a size 18/20.

This was in 2015. In the ‘Twenty-Seven, uh wait, Five Dresses' post, I did succeed once in making an excellent alteration to one dress! The dress in the picture below, in fact!!

This was in 2010. My Little Brain Weasel™ (like My Little Pony but less cute toy, and more evil destroyer of self-confidence) is telling me “Let's not open our mouth too wide, or that quadruple chin will be caught on video for ever".

This was in 2016. I believe the term is called ‘Ah, Feck It, Let's Just Gie It Laldie!'

This was in 2011. My Little Brain Weasel™ says “Hide! Hide those chins! HIDE, I SAY!"

This was in 2017. Ach, still chins, but still dimples, too, so deal with it, My Little Brain Weasel™!

I do admit to myself now that I was at least a little fabulous before, too. I just wasn't in the right place, mind-wise, to appreciate it. I do wish I had known I wasn't truly horrendous when I was younger, but hind-sight is 20/20, as they say. But being fabulous and fit(ish) is better all round for me now, and just because I'm in a little slump losing-weight-wise at the moment, it doesn't mean to say that I'll end up back where I started. I've learned too much about myself for that to happen.

(One thing I've learned is that I appear to be made up of cookies and nature walks... But in the end, Gloria Gaynor said it best: I am what I am, and what I am needs no excuses!!)

Variations On A Theme, Opus 97 By B. Ully (1980 - 2016)

Bullying comes in all shapes and sizes, much like the people to whom it's directed. It comes in many different forms ranging from emotional to physical, and no matter which type you come across in your life (because I suspect that most people have experienced bullying in one form or another) it leaves a mark.

The belief that fat is a shameful and uglyfying contagious disease is prevalent in our society. We see it in the tabloids and on the streets every day. People continue to behave like they can pick up a stigma-tastic fat virus by breathing the same air as someone who is larger than they are, and that somehow it's possible to be considered as undesirable, as unpopular, or be as bullied as a bigger person if you hang out with, like, or even (gods forbid) find them attractive. And I'm not talking about the reasons why a person is fat here (for there will be as many different reasons as there are people who are large), but simply about the social dishonour of being ‘different'.

I find that in itself to be very telling: that the modern human psyche is somehow letting it be known that bigger people get treated like crap, and no-one wants to be treated like crap if they can help it. No-one wants people to think that they are deficient on some mental scale for liking a bigger person, so instead of an empathetic response of kindness, inclusion, acceptance, the knee-jerk reaction is one of avoidance, exclusion, and, in more extreme cases, physical bullying. Bullying perhaps just to prove that you're really, really having nothing positive to do with a fat person in any shape or form, just in case the fat cooties attack you, too.

I was reminded the other day* of an incident earlier in my life where I was advised to seriously contemplate having a relationship with someone because he was the only person they knew of who liked fat girls, regardless of my own feelings (or lack thereof) for the guy. The implication being that they** thought a) he was a rare thing, in a strange fetish fashion, and b) I wouldn't find anyone else, so settling for him was the only thing to do if I didn't want to remain single for the rest of my fat, unlovable life. I'm paraphrasing, thankfully, but behind the ‘you seem so nice, you deserve to be loved even if we consider the potential him to be weird to do so' was a theme that has been a recurrent one since the time I discovered boys. And in varying degrees of platonic friendship from even earlier days.

My own experience of being bullied isn't unusual. It began when I was around eight years old. Before that I don't remember being made to feel I was different or not worthy of inclusion, but it was a tiny primary school, so once the kids reached an age to notice differences amongst ourselves, there was no place to hide.

Why was I bullied? I'm presuming it was because I was plump and looked different from everyone else. It's certainly the only things I was ever teased about. (Well, I was called ‘Duracell' a couple of times ‟with the copper-coloured top" but being a red-head was never anything I was teased with more than once or twice.) I was big little thing from day one; slightly premature and underweight (oh the irony) but broad-shouldered and compact none-the-less. I turned into a shy, chubby, emotionally-tangled hermit, (I'd go into ‘huff's, as they were called, when I didn't understand what was happening around me) and looking back I suspect that because I didn't understand why I was being picked on quite so much, it probably didn't help matters much once I became known for being a loner further up the school system.

My best friend back then was the polar opposite to me, skinny, a bit spoilt (partly because she was an only child, partly because she was from a troubled home and her parents were probably trying to cover things up with material things) but a kind friend to me until she started to be bullied because she was my friend when we were maybe ten or eleven. I never condemned her for her decision to choose not being bullied over being my friend even at the time, although I remember the sense of abandonment.

I wrote an essay in my first year English class at secondary school about being bullied, being careful not to name names as I was still being targeted by the same people, who were, incidentally, in the same classes as me at the ‘big school'. As a piece of prose it got a good mark (write about what you know...), and because of that the teacher read it out to the class, after which the bullying instigator from primary school came up to me in tears to apologise, not realising how much being bullied had affected me, yet somehow realising that she was the bully ringleader about whom I had written. I don't remember my reaction (probably embarrassment), but I do remember she was never so bold in her taunts afterwards, and instead I seemed to disappear from her radar, and therefore most of my primary school acquaintances' radar. Mostly a good thing, I think.

I spent much of my secondary school career by myself. From the tenor of the teasing and insults tossed at me on a daily basis I have to presume again it was because I was by this time quite overweight, partly in thanks to a heady cocktail of big genes and a knee condition which stopped all sports and movement almost in their tracks when I was thirteen. (I've written about this elsewhere on the blog - Osgood-Schlatter disease. Then: a debilitating knee condition that could turn a sporty, ballet-mad youngster into a decrepit old person almost overnight; now: something that can be handled with drugs and physiotherapy.) And again, a loner known to be a loner is left alone to be that loner. A meta loner, if you will.

The guys I crushed on were the objects of pity and potential tease-target themselves because of it, and I learned that my affections were to be abhorred and shunned, that I was not worthy, and that anyone who did actually like me would probably be emotionally deficient. The people I had to sit next to in class were sometimes subject to ridicule because, ugh, who wants to sit with the fat girl. So I learned to find seats by myself at the back of the class where no-one could see me and where I couldn't bother anyone. I stopped eating lunch in the canteen because I was so ashamed and embarrassed to be sitting by myself every day, and being subject to sniggers and jibes, (I started putting on extra weight because the dinner ladies felt sorry for me sitting on my own and piled my plate up every day to ‘make up for it', and I'd comfort myself in the food***) so instead took packed lunches to school, eating them in the locker room by myself, then eventually taking my sandwiches down to the beach, far away from school environment, and I learned that it was better to be lonely than be surrounded by people who made me feel like I was less than human.

Ironically the only other overweight girl in my year was my biggest tormentor. Pun not intended. She was sporty, strong, large, and tall; a giant who would physically push me around if we met up in the corridors or in the locker room. Hindsight suggests that the choice (in this context) for the fat girl at school was either to be the bully or be the bullied, and she obviously chose the former before the latter could put a choke-hold on her life. Compassionate retrospect aside, she is one of the few people on earth who I would not deign to spit on if she was on fire, even now, thirty years later, for it was her behaviour that was the catalyst in making my secondary school life a thousand times more painful, heart-breaking, and awful than primary school ever was. Where she led, others followed, either by example, or by avoiding me, and a lot of the emotional scars continue to lurk just under the surface.

Although yes, since school, instances of bullying haven't been as physical, but comments continue to fly from uncaring, uneducated lips, ranging between sneers and sniggers from passers-by in the street, a memorable account of a stranger, an especially rude bitch, poking me in the stomach in M&S telling me I didn't need to buy sausages, to being told more than once that I didn't get an operatic part because although I was vocally a shoo-in, I wouldn't fit in to either the director's visualisation of the opera, or the already-designed costume. And everything in between, whether from strangers with ill-intent, or from friends who ‘only have my best interests at heart'.

Current psychotherapy appears to be going along the lines of ‘what happened before has no bearing on the now', concentrating more on current feelings and thought processes, but you can't tell me that decades of rejection, being laughed at, and being made to feel less than human doesn't contribute something to how one feels about one's self, how we expect to be treated by others, and what we expect to be given in terms of affection throughout the rest of our lives.

But let me get this straight - I've not written this for sympathy; I neither need nor want any. Nor do I seek personal attention. I just want to add my voice to the myriad others who are trying to bring attention to the subject at hand, whether it be bulling by fat-shaming, disability-shaming, gender-shaming, race-shaming... In this context I don't care about the reasons why a bully bullies; in the end such perpetrator-coddling begins to sound like nothing more than victim-shaming. The ‘they beat you up, physically, emotionally, but that's because really they're sad, going through some ‘stuff', or is angry at themselves right now and therefore shouldn't be condemned, told off, or made to be responsible for their actions, but instead they should be cosseted, cared-for, and understood' argument holds no water when faced with the realities of being on the receiving end of their ‘bad day', and told we ‘probably deserved it, anyway, fatso'.

Is there a solution to the bullying question? Well, yes. Taking a moment to think before you speak or act might be a step in the right direction. Not openly sneering at someone who doesn't fit in with your own particular brand of ‘normal' might be another. Not judging someone by their appearance. Maybe trying to be less prejudiced and more embracing of human diversity. Then teaching your kids by example.

They sound so obvious, patronising even, but these tiny things can make the biggest difference to someone who's used to running the gamut of insults on their person every day. But I can't force people to change their discriminatory actions towards others; it's hard enough stopping myself from giving (or, more realistically, thinking about after the fact) retaliatory insults, or making my own snap judgements about a person, to try and change the world one twat at a time (I can change myself, though), but the first day I walk about in public and not receive any vocalisation of distaste or disdain will be an interesting one, I think.

* “You don't like being single - have you tried internet dating? There are sites especially for guys looking for bigger girls."

** It's fair to say that these weren't close friends telling me how to live my life, because my true friends, at least, don't insult me to my face, sugar-coated or not.
*** Beef olives, chips and gravy. mmm For all the possible connotations it may have to crap times at school, it remains a comfort favourite. Not all memories are bad, I guess...

Muscle Amnesia

“Nic continues to mistakenly believe that, just because she studied ballet for 10 years before a knee condition stripped her of athletic ability at 13, any cardio-ballet workout will be a doddle, somehow forgetting that thirty years have passed with nary a plié nor arabesque to be seen.

#iHurt #KneesStillDontWork #UglyDucklingPuddle"

Yes, in a way it's just like riding a bicycle - once you know how to do it, you don't really forget. Muscle memory is a powerful tool in many respects, but muscle memory is not, repeat: is NOT the same as constantly putting those muscles to use over a long period of time. Anyone who's just ridden a bike for the first time in twenty years will tell you they're a bit wobbly at first, but then their subconscious and sense of balance will kick in, and they'll be pretending they're on their old BMX/Raleigh Racer in next-to-no time. Then they'll tell you the next day that they can't walk because their thigh muscles will have decided to shorten to half their original length, and that they're being haunted by the ghoulish pressure of a too-small, too-hard saddle between their cheeks, and can't actually sit down.

Yes, remembering the mechanics of how to do something you used to do a long time ago is so very much not the same as actually having done it continually over the years...

First position? Pff, please you don't have to remind me what that is!! Wait, I can't get my heels to touch because my calves are getting in the way... Hang on, let me really push them... Um, I don't remember my Achilles tendon twanging so much before, that can't be normal.

Second position grande plié. Ah, that should be fine. It's like a sumo squat without the pain. I SAID WITHOUT THE PAIN! Ah yes, my knees still don't work, but I'm sure that using my knee-supporting muscles, whichever ones they are, it'll be fine. Knees are supposed to grind and pop nowadays, aren't they? Add a port-de-bras first to fifth (holding a cardio ball) while you're dipping, and back again? Ok, but I'm not sure my core appreciates that its day off has been cancelled. There's a lot of internal moaning going on... More than usual, anyway.

Split-squats opening out into a low arabesque... I.. Oof. I seem to be too over-encumbered with booty to raise my leg more than a foot off the ground behind me.

I cracked open an old book of Haydn sonatas the other week, not having looked at it for years. Possibly even fifteen years. It lives sandwiched between my vocal scores, with some other piano music from That Time Before Singing, but I spotted the blue ABRSM cover and was overcome by a fit of nostalgia, opened it at an old favourite and sat down to play. Needless to say my actual piano technique has been shot to hell after being neglected for so long, but even though I stumbled a bit, my fingers, on the whole, remembered where to go. After a decade and a half! Then I felt my tendons in my lower arms twitch, and after half an hour of pretending to be Maria João Pires I had to close the book, and gingerly wrap my wrists in the elastic supports I have to use after a particularly long session typing up my thoughts on to my computer.

So yes, that cerebral muscle memory can be a double-edged sword, but practise, as they say, makes perfect less pain. Then again, practise also gives you the ability to do something you couldn't do before, too...

I visited Sorghvliet park last week to pay homage to Spring and her ability to carpet the place in bluebells for a month every year, and actually managed to crouch to take a close-up photo; a basic human ability robbed from me in my teens. But not only did I manage a crouch without too much creaking and complaining, I also managed to get up without my knees demanding that I get on all fours before attempting that tricky Standing Upright manoeuvre as they've done in the past. 

Those afore-mentioned knee-supporting muscles with whom I'm only now becoming acquainted might come in useful, after all...

Jessica Smith, I hate you, but I love you, too.

More Than Just A Number

I haven't, up until now, copied and pasted anything here that I've found interesting from the ‘net about weight-loss, but having struggled with the numbers of my scale sticking around the same place for the last goodness-knows how long, an article on myfitnesspals' blog Hello Healthy made me think a bit more positively about where I am right now.

Nah, I'm not really going to copy and paste the entire article, although the link is just above, if you want to cut out the middle man. 

Struggling with being stuck on a Table Mountain of a plateau even though I'm consistently eating well and working out has led to a lot of negative feelings in regards to how I see myself; my shape, my commitment, my goals, and not only that, but it makes me worry that my friends have similar worries about my journey. I'm aware that I'm walking this path for myself, whether it goes up or downhill, but yes I do fret about how I'm seen through others' eyes, too, those that know I'm on this voyage of discovery, and have witnessed the huge difference I've made in my life so far. It's quite traumatic for this person who spends a lot of time worrying about other people, and not wanting to let them down or to think that they might be saying, aw, what a shame - she was doing so well - after not noticing any recent tangible weight-loss.

(I doubt there's really anyone out there, except for myself, who actually spends that much time thinking about me at all in this respect, because hey, I'm proud of myself, but I've not fallen in a narcissistic hole of presuming everyone actually cares *that* much about what I'm doing. That I care about what people might or might not think probably comes from having such a positive reaction from friends and relatives about my new appearance and health after a lifetime of being judged and found aesthetically wanting. But this is a subject on which I've been writing about for a few months now in another post, and I'm still working on it, so I won't mire myself too far into this emotional mindf*ck here just now!)

So indeed, what made me stop and think enough to want to discuss the article I read online was the way I was still being controlled by my scales, and how those numbers have been the be-all, end-all of how I've been measuring my losing weight. Yes, I've posted about how pleased I am to be getting into smaller jeans, and how I'm still having to alter my clothes even though I'm stuck, weight-wise, but I've not really managed to truly convince myself that it's all good, and that I'm still on track.

The title of the piece is ‘12 Amazing Exercise Benefits That Aren't About Weight Loss', which is a little bit click-baity, but as touched on a nerve I had to have a look. I'm glad I did.

Out of the 12 Benefits which are listed as:

1. Relieves stress and anxiety
2. Improves learning and memory
3. Improves self-esteem and body image
4. Strengthens the heart
5. Builds stronger bones
6. Promotes quality ZZZs
7. Provides a bonding experience with loved ones
8. Improves mood
9. Increases metabolism
10. Improves digestion
11. Reduces disease risk
12. Decreases appetite

I can certainly relate to a few. Numbers 1. and 8. seem to be linked for me, certainly when I'm taking my long power-walks through the woods and parks, a time when my thoughts are concentrating more on my surroundings than the myriad little problems we all face every day. And it's certainly true to say that when I'm sweating and swearing my way through video workouts, there's little space left in my brain to accommodate anything other than counting reps and being an internal cheerleader to push a body that would prefer to sit and eat cake into a body that works better with sit-ups and, well, still eating cake. (Cake 4 Life, y'all!) And although I've yet to reach the fabled heights of an exercise rush, I've never finished a walk or a workout feeling worse than when I started. At least mentally!

I have no idea about number 2. Are my memory and learning abilities improved? Who knows. I still occasionally forget why I come into a room, and continually misplace my tv's remote control, so the jury is out on that one, and I'm swithering about number 3. Is my self-esteem improved? Has my body image finally dragged itself out of the gutter? Here it gets more complicated, partly due to my work as a singer, and it's a career that sometimes feels like it's regulated by self-esteem and the approval or otherwise of others. It's a very personal instrument, obviously, and I can't think of one fellow singer that hasn't been affected by critiques at least one time in their lives.

Body image is something else (even though nowadays you have to look like a Hollywood starlet to get decent work, and frequently how you look is considered more important than how you sing...) and it's a little easier to analyse. Yes, I look at myself now and feel a thousand times less horrified than I did up to four years ago, when I spent as much time avoiding my reflection as possible. I'm proud that I can now sit in a theatre chair without having to edge in sideways. I'm ecstatic that I no longer need to ask the air hostess for a seat-belt extender in front of sneering and judgemental ‘fellow' passengers. That I can walk and talk at the same time, instead of merely forming gasped and monosyllable conversations continues to be a delight. But in true Twenty-First Century, media-controlled, body-not-mind-obsessed fashion, I look at myself and rarely see the stronger frame that has had its body-fat content dramatically reduced, that enjoys healthier curves and fits in smaller, cuter clothes. I mostly still see a fat girl who continues to be shunned and ridiculed by your average person on the street, whose stomach will never be flat, arms will never stop jiggling, and whose jawline will never be taut.

Yeah, 3. needs a little more time, methinks. 4. and 5. on the other hand. Well, I'm pretty sure my heart has to be a lot stronger than it used to be. My lungs, too. It's simple to tell just from recovery period if nothing else. My beats-per-minute come down from a well-sustained aerobic rate to normal again so much faster, SO MUCH faster than when I started this little health-improving sojourn. Yes, I still get puffed-out during exercise, but it's not how knackered you get that indicated fitness, because no matter how fit you are, you still want to push yourself as far as you can go (without incident or accident), it's how quickly your heart returns to its resting rate. And my bones? Well, I ache a lot more than I did before I started this exercise regime, but I'm happy to accept that my bones must be stronger, without empirical proof.

Quality sleep, number 6... Well, it's hard to tell, as I can sometimes sleep like a log after a day of doing nothing but type on a keyboard, and I can suffer insomnia after a day full of moving about, and a killer workout. Next! Ah, 7. Yeah, Exercise bonding. I workout on my own, and although I share my ups and downs quite liberally on social media, I'm loathed to let anyone near me when I'm trying to curl up in a crunch, or attempting to make sure I don't suffer a concussion from an overly-flung kettle-bell. I bond over cake.

8. is up-post, and 9. 10. and 12. are their own little hells. Metabolism increase, digestion improvement, and appetite depression. Hmm. Well, my metabolism was never slow to begin with (although that may also have been controlled by my previously un-diagnosed gluten intolerance, because that does... *things* to the speed of digestion that can be, frankly, a little surprising...) and I can safely say that the combination of curbing my calorie intake and upping my exercise time have done little to stave off the need to bury my face ear-deep in a well-frosted carrot and walnut cake more times than I'd care to admit.

I will cut and paste part of 11. though. Because... well: “11. Reduces disease risk. Exercise can actually help prevent diseases like type 2 diabetes, stroke, metabolic syndrome [the name for a group of risk factors that raises the risk of heart disease and other health problems], and even some forms of cancer."

Yeah, 11. When sh*t gets real!

So, I must learn not to lament when those scales show me no change, because even the most high-tech weighing apparatus (or at least one that I could afford) won't be able to show me how much stronger, fitter, and healthier my body is, nor by how much lighter my mind can occasionally be lifted.

Muscle Bound

“Nic never felt so stiff and sore, in constant need of a good stretch (and something to steady her cup of tea) in the days before working-out. Surely there's a lesson to be learned there? 

True, she couldn't walk and talk at the same time without gasping for breath in those days before working-out, but at least her muscles never felt the need to complain about overwork! 

#ObliquesOfDeath #TricepKickbacksKickedBack #ThereAreAbsUnderTheFlabAndTheyHateMe

#ParallelUniverseSilverLinings"

All joking aside, it's quite horrifying to realise that there really was a time when I couldn't walk and hold a conversation simultaneously. A time when I'd seriously strain a hamstring attempting to climb off a chair after changing a light-bulb. A time when a trip to IKEA was looked on with trepidation thanks to the the mountain of steps to be climbed to get from the train- to the bus-station (and thence on to the store). Seriously. I love IKEA, but those steps would put such a downer on the whole trip that not even the promise of Swedish Meatballs would be able to save the day completely.

Yes, now I'm on the exercise bandwagon, I know it's not really advised to come off, either losing weight-wise or health-wise if you want to maintain weight loss, vigour, and/or flexibility. But don't get me wrong; if I could stop exercising tomorrow and not suffer from muscles turning to fat, depletion of strength, the inevitable weight gain, and a whole host of other detrimental health issues, I'd already be scribbling out a long list of TV series to binge-watch every evening for the rest of my life while vegging-out on the couch, instead of clicking on YouTube, and beating myself up with a variety of torturous exercise implements six nights a week.

I am not one of those born-again exercisers who only live for the time when they're sweating their guts out, whilst simultaneously, and loudly, spreading The Gospel Of Burpees. No. I shall leave worshipping at the Altar of Exertion to the sweating zealots (a band name for the taking if I ever heard one). But I do have to admit to enjoying the benefits of raising my heartbeat significantly for an hour or so at a time and of taxing my muscles to the point of fatigue, and truly appreciate not having to worry any more about people accidentally sitting on my lap when I'm travelling on public transport, because they thought they were going to sit down on my coat lying bunched up next to me on the other half of the seat, and not actually land upon my spreading thigh.

I mentioned this exercise con (as I'm now calling the exercise bandwagon in my head on days I'm aching more than normal) to a friend of mine - you know; beginning a new regime with good intentions, not realising that, like pets, it's for life, not just for [after] the holiday celebration of your choice, that is if you want to maintain the good work you've achieved so far - and she agreed that it is probably just as well that those at the start of a new workout programme, health kick, or attempt to lose weight aren't made more aware that once your body begins to get used to being punished, it needs more. Well, more of the benefits the punishment and suffering bring at least, and the stinger is that if you're hurting the best way to ease the hurt is to do more of the same!

So the only answer to workout-induced aches are more workouts, which seems rather unfair in the whole positive scheme of trying to better oneself, but it's probably just as well most of us don't know The Truth when we start out. I'm not 100 percent sure that had I been given a notice saying ‘Congratulations! You're about to embark upon a life-changing regime. It's going to be hard, and you're going to hurt a lot, but the benefits will be amazing! Disclaimer: you'll never be able to stop once you start because exercise malady begets exercise remedy. Vengeful God, Old Testament style' I'd have been quite so eager to start.

I exaggerate, of course. I'm only really complaining because I ache an awful lot more now than I did when I was a couch potato; a time when the only heavy lifting I did was the dragging of my larger self from place to place, and the only ‘cardio' my heart got was the straining it had to do all day and every day just to keep me upright. Ah, good times, good times!

In essence I was punishing myself a thousand times more per day back then than I do now, in an unhealthy and unconscious way, but even though I think I've now tipped the balance in my favour, I still maintain the right to lament over the fact, yes fact, that tomorrow my rear, thighs, mid-section, and upper arms will be ruing the day four years ago when I first picked up that Wii remote and changed my life!

I Dream Of Jeanie With The Size Sixteen Waist

“Thunder thighs? Check.

Round lower portions of which Homer Simpson would be proud? Check.

Muffin top more like a three-tier wedding cake? Check.

Overwhelming sense of fabulousness? Check.

Four years ago today I turned on my Wii Fit for the first time, in the hope I might change my life, and along the way perhaps reduce my girth from a size UK 32 to something a little healthier. Wearing size 16 jeans (tight though they are) was such an alien concept that it was never considered, even as a hope or a wish.

Yep, overwhelming sense of fabulousness (and maybe just a bit of delayed astonishment?) Check!"

Yesterday I posted a little teaser (although I didn't know it was a teaser at the time) of a close-up photo I took of the waist band of a new pair of jeans. A pair of jeans bought in a ‘normal' (i.e. not plus-size) part of a chain-store.

Yes, it says EU 44, which is the equivalent of a UK 16, yes, the jeans are from Clockhouse (the ‘trendy' section of C&A), yes, they're flared but not for long (as my short legs require less yardage than has been generously bestowed upon me by Clemens and August, and they will soon be set about with a pair of scissors), and yes, they took a little persuading to get on, but I'm pretty sure getting them buttoned, and the zip up, and not feeling like I'm about to be cut in half, means that they might actually not be far off the right size!

Now, I admit I already have a pair of jeans in a sixteen; from Evans in fact - their classic, and wonderful, ‘pear' jeans, for those of us with wide hips and a non-proportionate smaller waist who hate having to buy large jeans that accommodate our juicy mid-portions, because it means that we'll be beset by Gappy Waistband Syndrome. The thing is, their pear-style jeans seem to be cut just a wee bit on the large side. Most of the reviews for the product say that if you're an eighteen, then it's probably a good idea to get the size smaller. In fact, I pooh-poohed those reviews until I bought a size eighteen, and found them a little roomy around the thighs and, well, juicy mid-portions. I sold them on eBay suggesting that they'd probably fit a small-waisted (proportionally) size twenty. So yes, I already have a pair of sixteen jeans, but according to the reviews (of which I am now a subscriber) and my own experience (of which I am also a subscriber - better late than never), they're more like a seventeen, if such a size existed.

It's intriguing for me, though, this getting into a size sixteen jeans thing, because, believe me, I haven't done much in the way of actually shedding weight this past year. I've been working at it, gods, I've been working at it: exercising; walking (oof, lots of walking); 5:2-ing, etc but it's been a bit up and down, and I've reached no milestones since March. (In fact I've rather back-pedaled.) So losing a real dress size in a year, and not a pretend Evans pear jeans dress size, is rather confounding. But don't get me wrong, I'm loving it. I had to try very hard to contain my jubilant WHOOP in the changing rooms when I got everything closed without trapping skin, or harming any major organs, especially as I'd taken the jeans to try on as more of a ‘let's see how far off I am from getting this size to fit' rather than an honest-to-the-gods ‘I need new jeans and these should do'. That I was pleasantly surprised by the outcome, is, as you can probably tell from the above, an understatement.

Of course, I wouldn't actually get into a size sixteen dress without it straining considerably at the stomach (if I could get into it at all), which would make me feel horribly self-conscious and lumpy, but jeans are supposed to be tight, no? I'm sure a thousand adverts showing both guys and gals huffing and puffing to get into their pair of 501s can't be wrong! I wear jeans for comfort, and for warmth, because sometimes going outside wearing a long skirt and a pair of tights to fend off the chilly fingers of Jack Frost just isn't enough. (Which makes him sound like a right letch. Sorry for the character assassination, Jack.) And I normally wear long jumpers and tops to cover my stomach anyway, so who's to know that although technically I might not *be* a size sixteen, I can certainly rock a pair of size sixteen jeans?! 

My new confidence-boosting mantras include: My Thunder Thighs Are Worthy Of Hugh Grant In Love Actually (although I believe the expression used was ‘thighs like tree-trunks', but it's close enough), and My Muffin Top Could Be A Bakeoff Showstopper. I'm still trying to find a positive spin on having Homer Simpson's rotund lower portions, but I'll get there...!

Making It Up As I Go Along

There are good things and bad things about taking your time to lose weight. The main good thing is mostly in the hope that if you're losing weight slowly yet steadily (give or take a few hiccups) it could give you an assist in maintaining possible weight-loss once you've hit whatever goal you were aiming for. Knowing that you're in it for the long haul doesn't automatically make you one hundred per cent comfortable with the concept, though, and I think it's not the cleverest of options to believe that you won't sometimes feel helpless in a tide of negative emotions, or that you won't possibly be overwhelmed by the daunting notion that the hard work may well be endless.

Gods, though, but that's a trying notion; the thought of a never-ending battle against being big is exhausting if I allow myself to dwell on it. And I don't really have a plan to cope with that. As with most things, I don't really have a plan at all.

I set off thinking that losing weight would be great if I could manage it, but not having a final number, shape, or clothes size in mind. I have a suspicion that I thought it might not happen, that I had been this big for too long, and my whole being, soul, even my personality was so used to this enormous entity that I'd become, that I'd be stuck forever in a life-sucking cocoon of morbid obesity and self-disgust. Or that my head and body would fight me tooth and nail to stay the same, safely large, as I had always been, because that's all it, and I, had ever known.

If you're into astrology, it won't surprise you to know that I was born under the sign of Taurus the Bull. If you're not into astrology, it won't surprise you to learn that I'm stubborn, that I like to know what I'm doing at all times, and I'm not keen on unexpected changes to my routine, so taking off into weight-loss wilds unknown was much of a bigger deal than I was (or still am) completely prepared for.

I have to admit that on the many things upon which I didn't plan, I didn't actually plan on success. I still have to remind myself that losing a hundred pounds isn't something that happened to somebody else, but instead it was, is, something I accomplished after an awful lot of hard work, and about which I should be inordinately proud. That although I'm basically flying on a wing and a prayer, I've actually unlocked some achievements (if you'll excuse the gaming metaphor). My strength, constitution and dexterity have been steadily levelling-up over the past few years, charisma is more of a two steps forward one mighty blow to the self-confidence step back again, but it's being worked on. I'm still trying to figure out how to win more wisdom and intelligence experience points, but I don't think trying to knock some sense into my thick noggin with a nose-bloodying Wiimote, or out-of-control wrist-weights has gone too well on that front so far...

I continue plan-less.

In the end-game of an ideal world, perhaps I'll eventually find I have a body I can use well, one with as much extra skin as I can cope with and not absolutely loathe, one that's as healthy as it can feasibly be, without my ending up a neurotic, weight-obsessed, health-evangelistic mess of the formerly over-fleshed. In an ideal world I won't have to workout almost every evening, and walk miles nearly every day because I'll be maintaining my weight-loss, not still struggling to take it off. I'll be able to intermittently fast for one day a week instead of two because it makes my brain work well, keeps my body on an even keel, and I enjoy it, and not because I still have fifty pounds to lose. 

Of course I'm under no impression whatsoever that arriving at a non-obese, ideal-world weight would automatically mean I can do or have things other people that weight can do or have. That belief, that hope has already been put aside without too much rancour. I won't ever have skin that sits flush on my toned muscles, although toned they will be. I won't ever have a jawline (or lack thereof) that doesn't look like it belongs to an OAP. I have the feeling that my knees will always be the curmudgeons of my corpus, and my left hip is, I suspect, on its last ten years of working order. My feasible ideal world doesn't include the luxury of skin removal surgery or face-lifts. But it does include normal cholesterol, normal blood-sugar, normal BP, and hopefully less of a chance of contracting nasty illnesses. To make it even more black and white, at least dermis-wise, it's either taught skin and dying at fifty, or slack skin and hopefully making it to an age where I can wear purple and spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves!

I also realise that arriving at a non-obese ideal-world weight will not make all my dreams come true, like some Disney fairytale or other. Fat Girl gets thin after life of sad loneliness and finds dream career, dream home, and dream family handed to her on a (convoluted yet obvious) plate. WOOHOO! :: throws confetti :: But yes, the internal bodily changes will make, are already making, an enormous (black and white) difference to my quality of life, and, hopefully, my future quality of life. External bodily transformations have already brought about the ability to get into a pair of jeans from a standard clothes shop. My head is more of a work-in-progress, of course, because no matter how 'normal' I may eventually appear to the general public, if I still feel myself to be the fat, unloved and ridiculed kid I was at school, for whatever reasons, then the chances are that this weight will just pile back on again. It's my own fairy tale, perhaps more in the style of the Brothers Grimm than Disney, but I'm working for, if not Happy Ever After, then at least not Unhappy Ever After!

On a day-to-day level, however, I just get on with it, and try not to worry about what may or may not be next. It's enough to eat less, workout, eat less, go for a walk, eat less, strength-train, eat less, make cookies... I respond well to a weekly routine without planning too far into the future.

And guilt, I respond well to guilt, too. Right now, for example, I'm on a writing roll. This is a subject that fills my head with so many emotions, and gives me such a wealth of theories I long to expound, that I could keep typing until my fingers cramp, my eyelids fall, or my right butt cheek goes numb. (For some reason it's always the right one. The left one must be slightly better padded. Or it might just be the less aware of the passing of time compared to the right one. It's obviously the dreamer of the two.) But in five short minutes begins the time that I've set aside for my workout, and as much as I try to will myself to stay at the keyboard I know I'll end up doing my exercise anyway (which starts today with a session on the cross trainer) just beginning ten minutes later because I've dithered around with the vain notion that I could throw this (self-imposed) schedule to the four winds and write, write, write, like I wasn't already feeling guilty because I should be doing something else. Like getting changed, pulling the trainer onto its non-squeaky floorboard spot, and striding my way to sweating off five hundred calories worth of fat from possibly the big toe on my right foot.*

So, the non-plan is just to keep moving onwards, doing much the same thing, in much the same hope that one day I'll find what I'm still not sure I'm searching for. But with less stress and more cake.

* In fact this is exactly what happened. Except the big toe thing - I find myself quite unable to confirm that. But the whole guilt and stopping writing and working out. Totally happened. If only I could predict next week's lottery numbers with such foresight and conviction.

Zombies

A brain is an awful thing. Awesome but awful.

You know that feeling when you're sitting in a fast train and you pull up to stop at a station rather abruptly and your inner ear tries to convince you that instead of arriving at a full stop, you're actually still travelling (I always feel like I'm moving backwards)? That your wits are telling your brain that it must still be moving because the miniscule amount of fluid sloshing around in an equally miniscule part of your nervous system tells it so? A sensory illusion of self-motion of some kind.

(And thus ends my theory of stopped movement based on scant memories of long-ago secondary school biology classes...)

I feel a bit like that stopped but not stopped train in regards to staying at roughly the same weight I've been for the past six months.

(Well... I went up ten pounds during the Summer months thanks to taking time off the evening workouts and just relying on an albeit ridiculous amount of walking to be enough to keep the status quo while I had family visiting over different periods, and yes, I admit, not sticking to sixteen hundred calories on days I wasn't doing my 5:2, either. [I do love my 5:2, though. I feel like it cleans out my head twice a week. I suspect you won't find that on the website manifesto, but what can I say? Clean eating and a clear head is worth the paltry five hundred calories and feeling ravenous by the end of the day, two days out of seven.] The thing is, is that I had a pretty great Summer, and that makes me a little... wary, because part of that pretty greatness is that I wasn't being so strict with myself, and I enjoyed it.

The weight has slowly, s l o w l y come off again so yes, I'm back at March, so although technically I've lost another ten pounds since then, those pounds lost are actually the ones I put on over the Summer months, but if I want to read this in the wishy-washy light of a silver lining, I have, in a practical sense, actually lost weight since March. Yay?)

So I know physically why those pounds came a-visiting (most of them have, thankfully, already packed their bags and gone) but knowing mentally why I opened my door to them in the first place is always a little more complicated.

I have theories, most of which revolve around being so tired of doing all this work and still looking like the Goodyear Blimp. Somewhat deflated from before but still large and slightly dirigible (especially after a day of eating nothing but vegetables). Although there are friends who I haven't seen in a while who can't believe the transformation (one friend actually didn't recognise me after not seeing me for three years), I'm still a big, fat, unattractive girl to a general public who just judge this ship by its hull (to nick one of my favourite, although non-PC, Jim Davis/Garfield jokes).

It does seem that the more weight I lose, the more dissatisfied I am with myself, too, even more self-critical if that's possible. I'm paying much more attention to my rolls and folds and general outline now than I ever did when I was at my biggest, but there is the fact that I did my level best to avoid looking at myself at all back then, so there are a myriad other issues at play about which I'm either not aware, or not ready to tackle yet.

But to get back to my stopped train metaphor, I've lost so much weight over the last four years, that a 'sudden' stop and plateau is making me feel like I'm moving backwards. I look in the mirror and ol' brain here tells me that I am getting fatter again. That although the fact remains that I'm the same shape and weight I was back in March, my head is trying very hard to convince me that my cheeks are a little rounder, that my jeans are a little tighter, that my spare tyre is blowing up again.  And it's not true. My scales, inch-tape, and the fit of my clothes tell me it's not true. And yet I catch my appearance in a shop window and see four years fall my from reflection.

Brains, man. Brains. They should come with a user's manual. Or at least a mute button. I'd prefer an off switch, but that might cause more problems than it solves, so until I'm in command of its capricious ways I'm going to have to train myself to rely purely on empirical evidence and not my brain's impression of my appearance, because, indeed, the ways of my noggin are awesome and awful!

Twenty Seven (Uh, Wait) Five Dresses

“Nic is making heart-breaking decisions over which of her concert gowns are salvageable or not. She has three that just can't be taken in any further without losing their shape entirely, one that was too magnificent to take in but was kept *because* of its very magnificence (bought in Paris in 2001, 1930's style, jet black floor-skimming dress, with a beaded and sunburst halter-neck collar, and matching short-sleeved mandarin collar jacket), and one that was never worn but is just too complicated to alter.

In other news, take note, Queens of Drag - eBay will soon have 5 spectacular evening gowns going for a song!"

They're gorgeous, these dresses, but they have to go and live out the rest of their lives being worn, and not hanging on the back of a bedroom door, loved but useless. It does make me sad, though. I had history with these dresses. Some, perhaps history of the more obscure, or even pernicious in one case, but we've been through a lot together, these dresses and I, and they deserve life back in the limelight, and not a slow fade into dusty obscurity.

But let me present unto you the Fabulous Five Dresses Of Past Glory:

There's the burgundy gown with the white 'underskirt' that I bought new from a seller on eBay in the days before it was inundated with El-Cheapo dresses from China. It was expensive, but still much cheaper than buying in a store, and was nicely made from thick, luxurious satin, complete with pretty crystal and embroidery detailing to the front, finishing with a faux over-skirt/underskirt effect that was the fashion fifteen years ago. (You can still find the style if you search hard enough, but they're really quite the product of their time. I'll attempt to spin that to make it retro and glam when I sell it, though...) 

Then we have the exact same dress, but in pale blue satin and white underskirt, bought a couple of years after the burgundy one. (If it ain't broke, etc.!) This is the dress that only had one outing (for a concert in Portugal), for the simple reason that it was evil. Jinxed. Beset by satin devils who were only content when they caused harm and embarrassment to the wearer, in this case ensuring that a broken zip and a broken foot was the end result of a tumble down stairs outside the venue just after the concert. In front of the entire audience. I haven't worn it since that fall, and it's only today (ten years later) that I finally got round to repairing the zip and making it look all pretty and un-jinxy again. (I shan't be mentioning its ill-fated history on eBay, either. There's no spin doctor in the world that could make that story sound like anything other than a Stephen King novel.)

Next we have the dress I described in the status update. Oh my, but I thought this dress was the bees-knees! I bought it in Paris in 2001, albeit in a discount dress store on the Boulevard de Magenta. Still. I bought it in Paris, and that's what counts. The fabric itself is rather rayonesque, but it draped beautifully. The halter neckline  (although in all honesty one that I should have avoided, having no neck at the time to actually speak of) was a triumph of beading, and matched together with the little jacket, looked like something out of a golden-oldie Hollywood film. It made me feel very glamorous. I managed to time things just about right in the Summer of 2013 and I was able to wear it one last time in concert before it started to swamp me, which was wonderful. (Please excuse the light patches on the photos. The sun shone. My phone's camera wasn't sure what to do with such a rare phenomenon.)

The purple gown is a bit of a mystery to me. I got it in a sale, but I don't remember when. Possibly last millennium. I do have a vague inkling that although I thought it was a tiny bit too small for me at the time, I felt like it was a bargain that had to be snapped up, because it would fit eventually? Ah, I'm rolling my eyes so hard at my past self right now. It's quite a simple dress, with a gorgeous curved V neckline, but you know, I strongly suspect the Cadbury purple colour had a lot to do with the belief that the gown needed to come home with me... It actually fits a little loosely around the hips just now, but because it's such a classic dress there's nowhere to hide my amateur bodice-alteration skills, so it's joining the others in the way of eBay. 

Last is the dress I don't really want to sell yet because I managed to alter it so that it sits nicely at my waist and doesn't gape at my bust, and continues to sit without rucking at my hips even with all my taking in. And I did a fantastic job, even though I say so myself - check out the seven inches in total that I took in at the side and the back. Yes, that's right. SEVEN INCHES in total! Those stitches were tiny, even and beautiful. Not that you can actually tell, given that the dress was chucked on the bed to take an impromptu photo. But they are. Those stitches were exemplary!

I don't really want to sell it because it still fits. Just about. It's on the verge of being baggy, and there's no way I'll be able to take it in anywhere else without making it look like some designer wannabe from Project Runway had a massive amount of fabric to use and got way too creative with ruching. It's such a gorgeous dress; bought on eBay (you may be noticing a trend here) from a private seller in the States around 2004, it fit me absolutely perfectly when it arrived. Described as 'apple red' (which I found charming, because if there's any colour I'm used to associating with apples, it's always green) and beautifully beaded at the bodice and at the opening to the faux underskirt at the back, it was a dream to wear. Once. Then I got too big. And then I got smaller again, thought I'd lost out on being able to garb myself in its glory, then discovered that my sewing skills were enough to render it sing-in-able again!

So it's there, hanging on the back of my bedroom door, waiting to be worn before it's too late. But there's more chance of me being able to sell it if I have other dresses for sale at the same time. Such is the nature of the eBay selling beast. And it won't be long (fingers crossed) before it's not a wearable option any more. I  just can't quite bring myself to attack it with my seam ripper and give it back its former glory.

FOUR DAYS LATER...

Well, attack it with the seam ripper I did. I figured that as I already knew what colours I was to wear for all concerts until March (a combination of certain ensembles having their own colour scheme; and a couple of other soloists who like to organise what dresses they will wear well in advance of the actual performances and wanted to make sure we didn't clash) and that I hope to lose something in the weight department at least by March (the fates willing), Apple Red will be made redundant. And because it's such a glorious gown I'd like someone else to partake of the joy. I was sad to rip out those threads just the same, even though the dress is now back to it's original (and beautiful) dimensions. I hope they all go to people who will enjoy wearing them as much as I have.

:: sobs quietly ::

Oh I Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside

Yesterday I:

• walked 14,000 steps, or just over, up to Scheveningen, along the beach, past the pier, and back via Madurodam. It was a bit of a dreich day, but I fancied a decent walk and going up to the beach and back is a favourite route if my aim is to get a fair amount of miles clocked, and this extended version is just over five of those on foot. Yes, it's not the most scenic route, except for the mile or so along the beach front, but it's simple and on a day like this when nature is taking some 'me' time and not caring so much about the wants of humanity, it's ideal for a good leg stretch without having to worry if there's enough juice left in the phone battery in case of emergency photo-taking. Okay, I took one photo, but there were extenuating circumstances: Many, many boats.
  
  
  
  
  
  (I also like walking this route, because it takes me through the shopping arcade at the pier which houses my brother's favourite chocolate shop. Well, a shop that houses his favourite chocolate. Ach, it's probably his favourite chocolate shop, too! (The Swiss brand Lindt, for those of the wondering persuasion.) I like to have a look in there when I pass to see if I can find anything that he wouldn't be able to find at home, because surprising him with something he's never seen before made from his favourite brand is cool and unusual. He's not very... shall we say excitable when it comes to receiving gifts, so presenting him with something new from his favourite sweetie brand is worth its weight in gold-wrapped Lindor.) Which takes me to my next bullet point:
• didn't buy any chocolate for myself. And there's a cinnamon-coriander variety of Lindor just out. I am sure you will understand the will-power that had to be exerted for me to leave the shop without handing over a significant portion of my grocery budget to be the custodian (even if only for a few short days) of such chocolate perfection.
• kept within my calorie limit. Thanks in part to, you know, not purchasing the Cinnamon Lindor of The Gods. 
• had excellent hair. It's naturally long and straight, but I wind it up in a bun when it's damp to give it a bit of movement, and yesterday those waves were vintage Hollywood (ish) and behaved almost impeccably when I went out. (My hair is my only vanity, at least when it doesn't look like I've been dragged through a hedge backwards, which sadly happens more often than not.) Yes, it was partly because there was hardly any wind for a change, because normally when you live this close to the North Sea, Wind Happens. Every day. Sometimes gale-force, very, very occasionally the gentlest zephyr's breath. Usually it's on the blustery umbrella-mangling end of the scale, so yesterday I was surprised to find the breeze lightly caressing my hair around my face, instead of whipping it about like I was an extra in Hurricane Chasers III - The Attack Of The Mane. It was a good hair day.
• worked-out. I hooped for half an hour or so, then made my triceps complain that it was Sunday, and surely that's supposed to be a day of rest. Mwahahahah! No chance! I am a mean muscle-mom! 
• let all that positivity be completely eclipsed by a cute man giving me the once-over with a snide smile-snort as he saw me walk out of the chocolate shop at the beach.

Why do I let people do that to me? What I really mean is, why do I let these people into my head? I will probably never see this guy ever again. He deserves not even a pinhead-sized plot of my brain real-estate. Yet...

Just before that I was feeling pretty okay. I was just over halfway of a really good calorie-crushing walk, it hadn't rained although I brought my trusty black umbrella that makes me feel like a female John Steed (the ORIGINAL Avenger) just in case, my hair was all Rita Hayworth (redhead version), and I had left the chocolate shop after not buying anything, feeling a little virtuous in the knowledge that I didn't actually need anything there, and WHAM! Stupid head thinking that a stranger's opinion of me was more important that my own self-acknowledged awesomeness. And not only that, I let this stranger's rudeness take hold, and grow pervasive confidence-draining roots into my self-esteem. Shame on him, but shame on me, too.

Seeing a fat chick walking out of chocolate shop is quite the stereotype. I get the inherent need to judge. I don't like it, but I've been alive long enough to know how humanity works at a base level. But you know, you can think mean thoughts without letting the meanness show on the outside. You can make snarky assumptions about me and my (presumed) lifestyle without inviting the world to share in your exaggerated sneer. There's no need to mock me so openly just because you've snap-decided that the reason I look the way I look is because I'm lazy and greedy, or whatever your particular chosen cliché is.

But, underneath this disquiet, I have to realise that I can't change this man. Amongst other personality traits, he has been conditioned by society to treat certain things with contempt, and for that I can't fault him so much. I do fault him for his methods in displaying his conditioning, though. You don't have to act like a dick just because you don't like something, or don't understand something, or are uncomfortable when faced with something that confuses you.

What I can attempt to change is my own reaction when faced with emotional ineptitude in the behaviour of others towards me. It's something I do try to do, but not always successfully, and although it doesn't make a dent in the surrounding layers of ignorance, I can try to use a more positive reaction to repair some of the cracks in my own armour, and instead turn them from blemishes into beauty marks.

• Yesterday I let myself be brought down. 
• Today I'm going to bring myself right back up again.