The day I walked up the stairs and three minutes later my wobbly bits were still wiggling from side to side like a successful panna cotta, was the day I decided to tone up. Fluctuating between being active and impersonating a vegetable, I was back to being active, however healthy veggies are for you.
My relationship with food and exercise is one of those which could be classified as ‘on again / off again’. As a child I was very active, cycling everywhere, walking to and from school, exploring around the neighbourhood, tadpole collecting, tree climbing: all very challenging when one’s legs are as short as mine were … and still are.
I was a good eater of most foods; particularly peanut butter and jam sandwiches on fresh white bread, divine. I did not, and still do not, like to eat kidney, liver, and tripe – perhaps it was mum’s cooking (sorry Mum) or perhaps it was because it’s offal – an unsolved mystery which has been officially closed.
Playing school and club netball as Centre position kept me fit and mum cold on Saturday mornings (sorry Mum). I played netball until I was 16. Then … I stopped to do a school play, became too interested in boys and took up anorexia followed swiftly by bulimia. Now, that says a great deal without me having to type a copious amounts of words. Binging and purging continued until I was 20 and fell pregnant. (Another mystery – how does one ‘fall’ pregnant. ‘I tripped down the stairs and next thing I know … I’m up the duff.’ A ponderous use of words.) Back to having a bun in the oven … Ah yes, the old cliché, good Catholic girl gets knocked up, as it has been for centuries.
Having a child was the best thing I have done … so far, and I am over half way: it could possibly be the best thing I have done … ever! Being responsible for a little human, what they eat, what they do and building the foundations for the person they will grow into is a parent’s purpose. And though I started out with parental training wheels on, I ate better, have a healthy relationship with food and, best of all, produced a lovely human.
I took up dancing in my mid-twenties: chassé’ing, jeté’ing, plié’ing and grooving through to my early thirties, then came squash, Pilates and walking, running, cycling, swimming, training for an Ironman, and a physical, sweaty, outdoor job – the old body complaining so much by now it hardly seemed fair to keep ignoring it. Over the years a couple of kilos had taken up residence predominantly on my legs, bum, hips and boobs: no relationship whatsoever to the amount of wine being consumed or the congratulatory baked goods, of course. This I could handle.
Never having been overweight and now relegated to the bench for the foreseeable future, I set the land speed record for turning toned muscle into flab and stacking on more kilos than a bulk-buy spending spree at the butchers. No surprises when excess skin started climbing out of undies, bras, jeans and socks. (Not really socks; it just sounded good.) Couple that with the food allergies, bloat and an insidious thing called vestibular migraine, et voila! We have all the ingredients for the perfect cheesy melt-down.
So, externally I looked completely healthy (unless I was wearing a bra, a fitted t-shirt and jeans) but internally I was messier than a teenager’s bedroom after a sleepover with no parental boundaries. Looking in the mirror when naked was avoided like a snotty-nosed toddler with a stinky nappy. Looking in the mirror with just bra and undies on was doable, though only after buying bras and undies three sizes too big and tucking all the excess skin under the fabric. Fork the face-lift! I needed a body-lift!
Fat fingers. Fat thumbs. Rolls of skin gathering and unfolding over elbows and knees like a Shar-Pei dog being blow-dried. Bending over while wearing clothing with a waistband was like putting a sock on a balloon full of water. Solution? Loose clothing, elasticised waistbands and cotton Lycra tights. Ironic, wearing active-wear when completely inactive. I resembled a half full water-bed bladder. Relieving the pull of gravity on my body, I kept my hair long and wore it in a tight ponytail.
Let us not forget back fat. Back fat: a phenomenon common to women in their fifties. Stealthy in appearance, its modus operandi is to creep up on its victims from behind, attach itself barnacle-like, and spend the rest of its life cycle avoiding captivity. Left alone and free, back fat is quiet and comfortable; like a sleeping baby … in a sling … attached to your back. Woes betide if you wave or raise your arms above your head. Unforgiving in its wrath, back fat will whip around and bitch slap you in the face. Hard. Twice. From each side. It is not your friend.
Fat is subjective. Only you know how you feel. Not really. Nearly every woman over the age of fifty (except Elle and Demi) feels the same way toward fat and flab. Fat is forked. It isn’t as though contending with aging is painful enough. Nope, throw flab at us too. We can take it. We’re big girls. Exactly!
When having a fat day, I don’t talk about it. I am sick of hearing ‘but you’re not fat’ when I have handfuls of the stuff oozing out from bra straps, undies and waistbands. I don’t go outside on windy days in case I open up like an umbrella, am caught by the breeze and blown away; last seen floating over Antarctica. Picture a jib on a yacht before and after the wind catches it … yep, exactly. Tucked away neatly in its cover, it looks petite and svelte but when it’s uncovered and exposed to the elements – poof! Puffer fish! (I have the scales to back that up.)
Considering the options available to me – eating copious amounts of gelatine to firm up this soft, wobbly panna cotta; growing my hair long and wearing it up in even tighter ponytails; walking on my hands for the rest of my life (boobs would flop over my eyes restricting vision); surgery (never again) or exercise … hmmm, a little option paralysis happening – back fat bitch slap – I opt for exercise.
Some online shopping for a full body fat reduction suit, aka Lycra active wear, and a pair of comfy runners, I’m psyched to get started. All that stands between forking off the flab and me is a permission slip from the healthcare professionals who benched me. Flashing some over-enthusiastic wobbly bits at them may speed things up.
It won’t happen overnight. In fact, it may not happen. It is only theory at this stage. Though the thought of firmer thighs glimmers like an oil slick, enticing me to give it my best shot. I know loosing weight is harder as you get older, possibly because resisting dairy is harder as you get older. The incentive is there though. Every time I walk up steps or get bitch slapped in the face by my back fat. (Fork! I’m fifty!)