It also makes you eat more Wilson's toffees
My jeans are talking to me. Dark mutterings. “I know what you ate last summer. I know about the coca-cola flavoured Wilson’s toffees in the boot of your car. I saw that extra spoon of sugar in your tea. You missed your vitamins this morning…”
All set to the glorious B-grade soundtrack of a grater raining bits of cheddar cheese on the Woolies low GI seed loaf that’s soon to be a snackwich. I had a mango too, just for balance. And two Wilson’s toffees.
I should be Muay Thai-ing my ass off right now, but instead, I’m blogging. About suddenly turning 30 and discovering that your body has joined the revolution, turned its butt on all those blissful meals of pasta and pizza and started chanting “down with tight jeans!” And so help me, I’m not turning to kaftans to hide every bump and lump. I like tight jeans. It’s enough that I can’t pull off those terribly short denim shorts anymore.
I’ve been getting increasingly panicky at the sight of myself in the mirror. Whatever happened to being all sleek and toned and happily immune to age-related body issues? It got me so worked up I ate a pack of cheese-and-onion chips.
I was a skinny, constantly active kid with a voracious appetite. My mom used to stuff tins of baked beans into my hands out of sheer exasperation at my constant hunger. (Baked beans are still one of my favourite comfort foods.) Going to varsity, starting a job and just generally being adult brought with it less time for canoeing and mountain climbing and more dinner parties and glasses of wine after stressful days. And before you know it… You’re looking at photographs of yourself in your younger days and going “I had a six pack?! I fit into a size 30 jeans?! Why the hell did I not just walk around naked all the time?”
All of a sudden, shopping for a bikini is traumatic. Buying a tub of Haagendasz initiates a guilt trip that lasts a week. I see cellulite everywhere and I’ve caught myself checking my arms for batwings.
Something’s gotta give. And it can’t be the seams of my jeans.
So someone mentioned the dreaded D-word. I’ve never dieted in my life. I love food. And I don’t even know where to start… So I started with dodgy Chinese slimming tea. From the local Kung Fu kitchen. It tastes like grass, and I share it with a friend who’s equally as obsessed as I am currently with all things body related. We have no idea if it works… But at least we’re not drinking sugary tea or rich coffee.
I’ve managed to stick in more vegetables in my diet. I drink loads of water. I train at aggressively and systematically decimating a punching bag. But no change. Well, not that I can see, or that makes me feel as if there is any difference.
So what do you do? Laugh it off? Buy a bigger jean size? Embrace the curves and wobbles? Go on a hellish diet? Train harder? Figure out that getting old is just one of those things? Find the silver lining? Cos’ there is the teensiest bit of a silver lining to this one… For the first time in my life, due to the bit of extra weight I’m carrying, I have actual bona-fide boobs. It rocks, if you’ve never really had a pair in your whole life, to finally have some. So maybe, just maybe, I can use them as an excuse to put off that diet for a little bit longer…
