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 Low and behold, the tops of my legs had been replaced by cottage cheese!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!)