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‘Whenever I feel the need to exercise, I lie down until it goes away.’ Robert Maynard Hutchins.

27 Oct

Every once in a while it occurs to me that it might be time to shake up my exercise levels again.  Usually such a thought is sparked by one of those oh-no-don’t-tell-me-it’s-shrunk-again moments when I decide to try something on that I haven’t worn in a while—‘Mmmmm . . . I don’t remember this being quite so snug the last time I put it on . . . and I don’t recall it showing off all those wobbly bits quite as much either . . .’  Sigh.

You might have gathered  that I am not really a fan of exercise per se.  I exercise because I ‘should’ (and obviously need to) but not because I enjoy it.  There have been periods in my life when I have done much more regular exercise than I do now (like going to the gym religiously 4-5 days a week) and periods when I have done a good deal less (like lazily lifting a glass of wine while watching exercise videos . . . ) but there have been very few times I can remember actually enjoying the exercise itself.  (I admit I have enjoyed the benefits of regular exercise but the actual bending and lifting and running—not so much.)

(Just quietly, I blame my parents.  Neither of them had the slightest interest in sports, or indeed exercise of any description at all that I noticed, and they obviously passed this apathy-gene down on to me.)

In spite of this I do force myself to be not entirely sedentary.   I walk the dogs every day (although the dogs are getting older and therefore slower and so I am too.  Getting slower I mean.  I’m definitely not getting any older).  I do a bit (a very little bit) of weight training every day (for the ol’ bingo arms) although how much I achieve often depends on whether the girls decide to ‘help’ me along with the process (lying on your back holding a barbell above your head while three little dogs lick the sweat from your eyes, ears and nose can be a tad distracting) and I also ride my (stationary) bike for around 30 minutes a day.  Granted I sometimes catch myself pedalling more slowly than perhaps I should because  the book I am reading at the same time is getting kind of interesting and I can’t read it quite as well if the pages keeping jumping up and down and . . .

. . . okay, yes, maybe I could stand to need to kick it up a notch.  I’ll sit down, make some decisions and draw up a new plan of attack.  I’ll do that.  Later.

But first I think I’ll join my Maudie for a quiet little nap.  Decisions are always so much easier after a nice little nap . . .

 
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Posted by on October 27, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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‘Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.’ Mark Twain.

10 Mar

With the wane of summer and the cooler weather on the horizon I have been prompted to start going through my wardrobe again in readiness for packing away my light summery clothes and bringing my cooler weather gear to the fore.  I like this seasonal ritual.  It reminds me of what clothes I have (far too many), what I might need (absolutely nothing, but I doubt that will stop me from buying anything new), and there is always a surprise to be found in those deep dark closet-y depths . . .

(Sometimes the surprise is good―”Wow!  I forgot I even had this and, even better, I still really like it.” . . . and sometimes the surprise is not so good―”Oh dear God, did I really wear that last year? What was I thinking?  . . . ”  This year, so far, I have found a brand new sweater (it’s still got the tags on) and rediscovered an old (but fabulous) pair of boots I haven’t worn in years . . . )  

But the thing that struck me most this time was the range of sizes that my wardrobe now encompasses.  I guess that’s not really that unusual.  My weight has done such a merry dance up and down over the years that it is hardly surprising that the clothing in my wardrobe reflects this.  But, wait a second.  Didn’t I spend days last year sorting and culling and getting rid of everything that was too small, too big (or just plain ugly)?  Well―yes I did.  So that means that all the clothes left in my wardrobe now, regardless of their size labels, all actually fit me, as I am, right this very minute.  Mmmm . . .

It has been many years since I concerned myself too much about sizing labels.  At my current size and shape I ‘should’ be (according to the size charts the fashion industry insist on foisting upon us) a standard Australian size 12. (Ha―’standard size’―who thought that one up?) but I have no qualms about ‘going up a size’ (or two) if the style or material of the garment I like demands it.  (I got over that particular vanity years ago. Besides, a sharp pair of scissors cuts offending labels off quite nicely.)  When shopping in a ‘bricks and mortar’ shop I will often try on several sizes of the same garment and if a larger than usual size is more flattering, so be it.

 (I’d much rather do that than cram myself into my ‘standard’ size and have all my ‘wobbly bits’ on full display for all the world to see.  I still have some vanity left . . . )

But I don’t only shop in bricks-and-mortar outlets.  In fact, most of my clothes shopping these days is done on-line.  And I don’t only buy Australian-made clothes either.  So this adds another complication to the shopping experience, because every country has completely different parameters for sizing their garments.  (An Australian size 12 equates to an American size 8, an English size 10, a European 38 and a Japanese size 11.)  And then there are the XXS, XS, S, M, L, XL, 1X, 2X sizings to contend with . . . and don’t even get me started on ‘One Size Fits All’.  On what planet does one *&^%ing size fit all??  (A more appropriate tag would be ‘Fits Where It Touches’ . . . )

(By the way―if I think it’s difficult getting my own clothing sizes right, I am no better with the dogs.  The last time I ordered the girls new winter jumpers, I did all the measuring up beforehand to get their right sizes but, unfortunately, I failed to take ‘girth’ into account. Mabel’s sweater was a perfect fit, but by the time I managed to shoe-horn Maudie into hers (after much wriggling and squealing (by her, not me))―she looked like a stuffed sausage. Having been in that same situation myself a number of times I took pity on her and sent the offending sweater back . . . )

So why is it such a chore to find clothes that fit? (These (First World) problems are sent to try us.)  But you would think that someone, somewhere, on a planet of around 7.5 billion souls (all needing to be clothed) would come up with a solution to this irritating conundrum.

Unless, of course, they already have and just aren’t telling us . . .

A conspiracy theorist might speculate that if clothes really do ‘make the man’ (or woman), perhaps making it impossible to find clothing that fits and flatters is all part of some nefarious, insidious world-wide conspiracy to keep the seething masses shoddily dressed (or naked) and ‘people of little influence’ . . .

The truth is out there folks.  The truth is out there . . .

 
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Posted by on March 10, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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‘If you’ve lost your appetite today, I think I have it . . . ‘ Anon.

01 Jul

animated eatingHave you ever woken up one morning, with no previous indication that there might be anything amiss, and suddenly find yourself inexplicably caught up in the throes of some kind of hypnotic trance, unable to do anything else all that day except eat and eat and eat (and eat . . . and eat . . . and eat . . . )

This happened to me last weekend and it caught me totally off guard.  Friday night I was fine.  After dinner (Penne Pesto Pasta—yum) I cuddled up on the couch alongside my girls (in my trakky-daks and fluffy slippers—me, not the girls) with a nice glass of red (possibly two) and watched ‘Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince’ on the telly.  We were all comfortable, warm and fed.  All was right with my world.  Or so I thought . . .

woman and cakeOn Saturday morning I woke around 5.00am and my very first thought (and I still remember it vividly) was ‘I might go down to the bakers later and buy myself a sticky-bun’.  Say what?  Where did that come from?  I can’t tell you the last time I ate a sticky-bun.  And why a sticky-bun for God’s sake?  I can think of at least three more things right this very second which I would usually prefer to eat in order to sate any unexpected cravings (chocolate, cheese, more chocolate . . . )

And why was I having any kind of food cravings at 5.00am anyway?  I am not a big breakfast eater and usually have to force myself to eat something in the morning.  As it turned out the ‘why’ was irrelevant—all I could think about for the next couple of hours was that I going to get me that sticky-bun.  And, in the end, I did.  In fact I got two—and inhaled them both.

So that should have been the end of it—right?   I had eaten the sticky-bun(s)—I had completed the task—it was time to move on.

Caramello Koala Cake

Caramello Koala Cake

But—No.  It actually all went rapidly downhill from there and I, who have spent years and years diligently (although perhaps ‘diligently’ is somewhat of an overstatement) attempted to practice the art of not eating, seemed utterly unable to control myself.  I ate everything edible I could find in the house—that is everything that did not, in any way, shape or form, constitute a ‘proper’ meal.  (I was so not interested in eating a supernutrient-full-of-veggie-goodness ‘proper’ meal.  I wanted Caramello Koalas—or salt and vinegar crisps—or two large loaves of French bread dripping with garlic butter . . . Blissful sighs)

But this is not my first time around this particular block.  Although it has not reared its ugly head in a long time, this seemingly-out-of-the-blue-food-frenzy is not entirely unknown to me, and I was pretty sure I remembered how it was going to play out.  I would grumpily blob myself down on the couch and berate myself all day with ‘For-God’s-Sake-Sally-Stop-Eating!’ reprimands, and constantly remind myself of all the good work I was undoing—all the while stuffing my face with whatever sugar-fat-salt laden delicacy I had hold of at the time.  And, that is exactly what happened.

sick1As you can imagine, on Sunday I felt absolutely crapulous (I just knew that word would come in handy).  I was nursing a deadly sugar hangover (not to mention a severe case of ‘buyer’s remorse’—those sticky-buns had a lot to answer for) and trying to fathom what had brought it all on.  There had been no obvious triggers.  Nobody had upset me, there had been no major dramas, I hadn’t been fretting about anything—at least consciously.

Subconsciously, of course, is anybody’s guess.  Who really knows what goes on in our little heads when we are not paying full attention.  We think we have got it all sorted.  We practice the things that are supposed to be good for us.  We exercise daily, we meditate, we nurture relationships, we nourish our bodies with good and healthy food—and then while we are sleeping some mean, nasty, delinquent part of our brain slides over to the good, stable, responsible side, knocks it unconscious and issues orders for us to start eating the planet.  It’s all a bit underhand and totally unfair if you ask me.

overeatingBut you know—it’s done, and there is no point bitching about it any more.  I seem to have weathered the storm without too much damage and this week I have had no recurring desire to overload on—well, anything really.  I appear to be back in control.

But we all know appearances can be deceiving and I guess I shouldn’t get too cocky.  If this could all sneak up on me so unawares this time it could easily do so again.  I’m think perhaps I am going to have to watch my back for a while yet . . . and perhaps  drive past the bakers really, really fast . . .

 
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Posted by on July 1, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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‘I read recipes the same way I read science fiction. I get to the end and think, “Well, that’s not going to happen.” Anonymous.

15 Jan

reality tvOccasionally, and I stress it is only very occasionally, I get an bit of an urge to cook something.  (What was that sound?  Was that your chin hitting the floor? How rude.)  Well, don’t panic—I am not about to invite you over to test out one of my new fandabbydozy culinary creations.  Apart from that fact that I don’t think my insurance covers food poisoning, that occasional urge to cook usually only lasts until the closing credits of whatever cooking show I happen to be watching at the time.

It is a bit of a strange thing but I just love watching cooking shows. Why strange?  Because anyone who knows me at all knows that I really, really don’t like to cook.

not cooking (2)I honestly don’t like anything about cooking (except, possibly, and this very much depends on how successful the attempt was, the eating part afterwards).  I don’t like reading recipes (the ingredient list is usually enough to send me screaming from the kitchen).  I don’t like organising menus (which I wouldn’t do anyway because—well . . . just . . . why?)  I don’t like shopping for food (about the only thing I don’t like shopping for).  I don’t like the actual cooking process (ho hum), and I definitely don’t like all the cleaning up that is needed afterwards (well, der).

It’s not that I don’t know how to cook, I do.  I am an adequate cook.  I know the basics.  I can boil water.  I can scramble eggs or make an omelette.  I can cook pasta and sauce and I can even throw together a roast dinner if I have to . . .  but if I don’t have to, I would really rather not.

woman and cakeIn truth though, I did, once upon a time, like to ‘bake’ (as in cookies, cakes, slices, pies etc, which I don’t view as quite the same thing as ‘cooking’, but I am sure someone out there will have something to say about that) and, naturally, anything I baked, I ate. (Doh.) Unfortunately my clothing allowance couldn’t keep up with my ever-expanding girth and something had to give (other than my waistbands) so I stopped baking . . . although I am still more than happy to sample the efforts of others (nod, nod, wink, wink) . . .

Although I have no interest in cooking myself I have friends who are die-hard ‘foodies’ and passionate about the culinary arts.  (I’m not silly you know, I may not cook but I still need to be fed. 🙂 )  My friends will happily expound on all the different recipes they have tried, hold forth on the virtues of one particular type of utensil over another, and swap tips on the best places to buy all the ‘necessaries’ (and probably also ‘unnecessaries-but-want-one-anyways’) that go with the craft of cooking.  For it is a craft, and I do recognise that—it’s just not a craft I want to practice.  I am happy to listen to listen to all the animated conversations, nodding and smiling in agreement (like I really know what they are talking about), and I am always very happy to sample their delicious offerings—but I just can’t quite seem to get excited about it for myself.

Nor for the life of me can I understand why someone would want to be a chef or a cook for a living.  Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not knocking it—thank God there are people out there like you or people like me might live our whole lives existing entirely on tea and toast—garfieldchairbut from what I can see the work is stressful, hot and sweaty with unsociable hours—unless you are a ‘celebrity chef’ I guess, and then the stressful, hot, sweaty, unsociable hours belong to those who work for you.  Nope.  I just don’t see the allure.  But watching other people cook?  Great.  Fabulous.  I can do that.  Cooking for me is a spectator sport.

But if I am not interested in the cooking per-se, why do I love to watch cooking shows so much?

food pornFor me it is not about what is being cooked or how it is being cooked (I don’t get to taste he fabulous creations after all and, let’s be honest here, I am never going to try and cook it myself)—it’s all about the ‘art’ of it.  I find it little different from watching a painter create a painting, or a sculptor a statue.  I love the final ‘art on a plate’ image—although I have to say I am less enamoured, after all that work, when the ‘art’ is then attacked and gobbled up unceremoniously by the chef or judges.  I know it is all supposed to be about the taste and if it doesn’t bother the cook it shouldn’t bother me, but it does, it does . . . 

Anyway, perhaps, one of these days I may just break out and find my way back to the kitchen and try a couple of new recipes and . . . nah . . . who am I kidding . . . can’t see it happening.  My sister sent me a plaque once (still proudly on display I might add) that reads, ‘I have a kitchen because it came with the house‘.  How right she was.

But that won’t stop me watching, and salivating.  If you want to see some of the most gorgeous images of food you will ever come across, go to The Art of Plating and enjoy.  (Food porn . . . mmmm . . . )

 
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Posted by on January 15, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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