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Fork! I’m Fifty! Hail Damage, Cottage Cheese and Bags of Potatoes.

Fifteen! ‘She was only fifteen years old.’ When cellulite came a-knockin’. I had found a dimple on the outside of my upper, right thigh. I asked my mum, ‘what is this dimple mum’, to which she replied, ‘it’s cellulite. A little bag of trapped fat.’ Well, that’s revolting … and forked. Fifteen! I was fit, small and victim to bags of trapped fat.

Nothing further to report until going to the beach in my late twenties. There I was; a young, fit mother (albeit with shit tits), in shorts and a top – it was Hobart, where only the very young, the very old, the very stupid and dogs go in the water – and some tosser says ‘you’re alright apart from the cellulite on your legs’. What the forkitty fork? Seriously dude? Have you looked in a mirror? Ever?

That night, of course, I checked myself out. Low and behold, the tops of my legs had been replaced by cottage cheese! A very small container of cottage cheese, but cottage cheese none-the-less. There is a saying ‘you are what you eat’ … my friends … it is true. My food of choice when pregnant: cottage cheese. With pineapple. So I had pineapples for boobs and cottage cheese for thighs. Fantastic! We won’t touch on my love of yoghurt and how that manifests itself later in my life.

There is a distinct difference between the cute cottage cheese cellulite I had in my late twenties and the sacks of spuds that now inhabit my bum, tum, legs and arms. Firstly, I don’t eat dairy anymore (well, it is selective dairy consumption – who can say no to brie?), and now have a full-blown love affair with any vegetable containing the word potato. Seriously, we are at it at least twice a day. Secondly, this stuff is everywhere. I look like I’ve been left outside on a rotisserie during the most ferocious hailstorm of the century. I have hail damage! If I were a car, I’d be written off.

Really, I’m not surprised. Being inactive for eighteen months will do that to a woman, particularly an older woman. Though in combination with the fat and wobbly bits I’m starting to think this may be a lost cause. I could drive myself insane trying to get rid of the cellulite and the fat: plus there’s the balding hedgehog to deal with. And brie.

Perhaps all I need to do is eat smooth, un-lumpy, toned food: like Tom Hanks’ Cast Away character did – fish and coconut. Hmmm … on one hand I could have a trim, toned, svelte, old body which hubby loves regardless of what I think of it and how I look (at least that’s what he says to shut me up – which is fair, he is well trained); and on the other hand I could have a love of yummy food, cooking and eating out with friends and not look in mirrors or down when naked.

It’s a tough decision – hail damage, cottage cheese and bags of potatoes or fish and coconut? Really the question should be: Why the fork do women get all these forked things happening to them? If anyone says anything about forking apples and gardens and a bloke named Adam, they will be bitch-slapped by my back fat! Oh yeah, it will reach! Or should the question be: Why do women care? Hmm …

I remember seeing my great aunt at the beach in her bathers playing with her grand-son and thinking I hope I’m like her when I get old: not care about the saggy boobs, padded tummy and hips, flappy arms, dimples everywhere including knees. But I am not: I am vain. I should be setting an example for the younger generation of women coming up through the ranks. Being completely confident with my cottage cheese carnage. Nah, fork that. They have their own mothers, grandmothers, aunts and friends to example the shite out of owning fat bags.

I want to be a groovy granny sans cellulite, with the unconditional love of my grandchildren. Whoops … with the unconditional love for my grandchildren! Though I won’t be able to smell or see if they have a dirty nappy, and I may smother them with my cellulite covered back fat if I lean forward, so it’s over to grand-dad for that part. Which is only fair.

Do you know what really forks me off about cellulite? That female celebrities have found a way to get rid of or avoid cellulite altogether and have not shared the secret with the rest of us. That is unsisterly, unfeminine, selfish and just plain forked. We end up looking like dried up prunes whilst they strut around in their un-cellulited bodies. Come on ladies! One for all and all for one. I think I just found some cellulite on my earlobe!

Do you know what else pisses me off about cellulite? Guys don’t get it. I may have mentioned this earlier, though I forget, I feel it is necessary to mention it again to make my point clear. Society has it all wrong: women should be paid more money as they have to put up with more shite. (Of course, hubby would argue that men are paid more to compensate for the whinging and nagging of their wives. He would be wrong. And for his trouble: a round-house, back fat bitch slap. Back to training his well-shaped, un-cellulited arse!)

I just sneezed and a tsunami-like mound of dimpled jelly rolled its way down my back, around my hips and through to my stomach: what the fork! (It may be because you’re sitting around writing instead of exercising? Fork off! Oh, okay.) I did exercise this morning; I went for a lovely hour long walk along the dog beach. I met some lovely golden retrievers who would not let me pass without first slobbering kisses all over me and sitting on my feet for a multitude of pats.

It was regenerating being out and about. Breathing in the fresh, salty air. Listening to the waves gently breaking on the shore. The sun dappling on the water, shimmering and glittery. Cellulite softly dimpling and denting with my every step. Fat bits wobbling and rolling like puppies playing under a doona. It is a start. Remember, every journey starts with a small step. (Fork! I’m fifty!)

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Fork! I’m Fifty! Fat, Fat and Back Fat.

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!)