Whole 30: whole lot of pain or whole lot of yumminess? Part 4

Funny, when one is feeling raw and guilt-ridden, any observations and/or contributions to the conversation start to take on tones of judgement and smugness and sound substantially less like helpful wise words. Plus – and I don’t know if anyone shares this particular phenomenon with me – in trying to talk without crying, my face resembles a melting passionfruit cheesecake: all runny, yellow and snotty-looking because, of course, I am crying and my nose is running and I’m speaking some incomprehensible language. (To those who took the time to watch the cheesecake melt and interpret the blub, blubber, blubbing, my thanks and kudos; and, if I have put anyone off eating passionfruit cheesecake, my apologies. No, not really. More for me when I’m off the Whole 30! Ah… dairy… sigh!)

Day five: I went nuts! Nuts for breakfast, nuts for lunch, nuts for dinner, nuts with anyone around me, nuts to anyone who crossed my path. I was missing my husband. I was missing my dogs. I was missing my computer. I was missing my mind. Apple, not the pink lady variety, called to tell me the part for my laptop would be available in seven to ten days. Holey undies Batman! I’m going to come down there and chomp you up Apple. I could not do another week or so away from my specialist blubbing interpreters. I was held to ransom by a computer part. I was in danger of drowning myself in my own sweat. I was frightened my friends and family would divorce the deranged chicken winged woman who had replaced their fun loving free spirit. I was turning evil. I was becoming… da da daaaahhhhh… she-bitch demon. Right! 

Pulled pork yourself together woman, I told myself as saliva dribbled down my chin. First things first: get computer back by letting Apple know you’re waiting on the return of your laptop before you can go home. Check – lovely guy went through records to see if someone had ordered that part and not returned Apple’s call for over two weeks to confirm repairs so the part can be used on my laptop, success, and it should be ready on Monday or Tuesday, yay! Second things second: get your flappy tuck shop arms into some air-conditioned accommodation. Check – housesit son’s place for the weekend as they were going away. Third things third: stay away from everything living for a couple of days. Check – apart from some over-the-phone specialist blubbing interpretation, two days were spent away from everything with a heart. (Oooh… I could… ah no, I do not eat offal.)

Time for a treat; I took myself off to see The Greatest Showman and felt right at home blubbing along with the woman sitting a couple of seats down. I did wonder if she was doing the Whole 30 or if she was exercising the she-bitch demon too. Comrades unite! (Chicken wing was still flapping a couple of minutes after this salute.) Driving back to Bris-Vegas with the air-cond on and the music loud, I sang, I screamed, I shouted and basically looked like a possessed nanna nightmare to the kids staring, pointing and screaming in horror as their parents drove past. Moo ha ha ha… Snap out of it, woman! Bitch slap. Ouch. Eyes on the road please. Well, stop bitch slapping me. Ouch. I was in trouble.

Even though my self-induced hermit-crab impersonation was interrupted by a phone call from the new perspiration splattered flatmate, complaining vehemently about CYA – oh yeah, it had been what… three days? – I did find myself relaxing in my solitude. Plus I learned I could turn my iPhone on silent, take the vibration off, turn it upside down and pretend the world was non-existent; I hear it’s called screening. Cool! See you can teach an old she-bitch new tricks. Speaking of tricks, it is okay to have the air conditioner on overnight, how else can you sleep through a Queensland summer night? I did not perform this particular magic trick at my son’s place though, being mindful of his black-belt miser-meister status; but seriously 50+ sweaty ladies… do it, it is worth a good nights sleep. I ate the last of my sweet potato and pumpkin tagine (sans the tagine): ta Jean! – and more nuts.

Day six (then seven then eight then…): I have leprosy! Itchy blisters have erupted on my chest like boiling custard. What the hell? Dr Search Engine on iPhone said it could be leprosy (not), keto rash or an egg allergy. Ah, well okay then. Why not throw something else at me. I had been having too much fun obviously. So, after a breakfast of eggs and other compliant foods, I ate potatoes, potatoes, and more potatoes. I watched fluff, fluff and more fluff on TV. I ate spuds, spuds and more spuds. I watched something unmemorable followed by something else unmemorable and then watched something forgettable. (Unforgettable is my relationship with potatoes. I love potatoes: particularly par-boiled, then olive oiled and sea salted, then baked. Yum. I salivate.)

My son had introduced me to broccoli steaks – a similar method to the roast potatoes above – WOW and KAPOW! Something had happened to my taste buds. They seemed to have become extremely sensitive to taste – possibly should have been sacked years ago as this was their only purpose, hence the name. Umami was bouncing around my buds like a knee-bounced bonny baby. (I thought of using ‘bouncing around like a bra-less nanna’s boobs but decided against it.) The clouds parted, sunrays shone through the kitchen window, the broccoli steaks gleamed in the glory and I ate them all in under five minutes. Flavour bombs were going off faster than raw prawns in the far north Queensland sun. All right! This Whole 30 thing is amazing. I was hooked. Recipe surfing; such a great way to distract oneself and… good exercise. 

It’s Monday and I had survived one full week of eating compliant food. I was quite proud of myself. I was feeling more energetic. My leprosy had eased. My taste buds were dancing with joy at not being sacked. My clothes were looser. The air conditioner was on. The she-bitch had been banished. What could possibly make me feel any better? Ta dah! There it was, a phone call from Apple. My laptop was ready for collection. Hallelujah! Swapping my computer for a thank-you card and a pair of avocado socks (as you do), I made preparations for the long drive home.

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!)