Kaftans and Camel Toes!

Shopping - one of my least favourite past times. Put Simply, there was nothing fun about shopping for kaftan's, moomoo's and Bridget Jones style underwear. Naturally however, being a female, I possessed some inner oestrogen trigger working against me and conspiring to get me into the mall and swiping my credit card, despite the self-conscious resistance!

Being a bigger size and yet a younger girl, always made shopping challenging. In my minds eye I had visions of wearing hipster jeans, groovy belts, cleavage enticing shirts, perhaps even a beret (as if!). Sadly however, the best I could do was accessorise with shoes and handbags! Shoes were a given anti-depressant. When the groovy belt's didn't fit, I'd buy shoes instead. When the hipster Jeans made me look like a hippopotamus wearing a swim ring, I'd buy shoes. When the beret made me look like an overweight Britney Spears - I'd buy shoes!

Ironically I actually spent a few years working in a hip clothing store, Jeans West. We were required to wear the merchandise at each shift, not an easy feat when I had love handles spewing out the side of the "easy-fit, high waist" style jeans and was continually pulling my t-shirt out of it's desired resting place - my roll of back fat!

I was working with an eccentric gay man at the time who was a barrel of laughs and fun to boot - but had one major flaw - his fashion sense! Actually, it wasn't a flaw but more like one of his more endearing qualities. He was the exact kind of shopping companion one would want to have. Unless you were fat.

I would arrive at work 15 minutes before the start of my shift only to be reprimanded for wearing last season's fashions whilst sporting a muffin top, a camel toe and cankles all in the same outfit. After a dramatic display of shock and despair which would include fake tears, "why God Whys" and a paper bag for hyperventilation, "J" would set about trying to re-dress a dishevelled and self-conscious me, all the while cursing at my lack of fashion sense and my 'generous' curves. Sadly on more than one occasion I ended up wearing the men's clothes as J tried to pass me off as the store's "tom boy"! Basically I spent my hours looking like a butch version of him!

Needless to say I loathed shopping. Inevitably I would always end up wearing men's clothes or choosing an outfit so wrong for me I'd make an elephants hide look more attractive. I also happened to suffer from fashion/identity confusion. You know the syndrome where one day I'd be decked out entirely in sports gear, baggy pants, jumpers and joggers (clearly trying to give the illusion I was fit) and the next I'd be wearing a business suit from Jacqui E, heels and a french roll to match. I considered a shopping trip successful if I was able to find something which was in between the two styles and suited my age group - this happened very rarely. Some times I wore outfits which were so hideous and akin to Ma Kettle that I am surprised I couldn't attract a seniors discount! All the while my shoe collection was mounting.

When I started to lose weight I was delighted to learn I could shop in the standard section of Target rather than the maternity section. However, despite my shrinking body, my own visual image had not yet caught up and I would still instinctively reach for the large size clothes or anything with an elastic waist. I'd enter the fitting room, try my outfit on and realise with joy that it was simply to big. Reluctantly I would choose the smaller size and when game even choose a more garish item of clothing to try on. Rather than the turtle neck sweater I would sheepishly reach for a shirt with a plunging neck line. Rather than baggy pants, I would dare to consider something fitted, or even in moments of reckless abandon a dress or skirt!

I must admit I am still not accustomed to choosing smaller clothes. I still hesitate when I see size 12 and think, no I better grab the 14, or maybe even the 16! Despite my confidence I still have flashbacks of my tom boy days in Jeans West and freeze. The only thing I seem to know with surety despite having lost weight, is my bra size and it's so depressing it warrants a new pair of shoes anyway ;o)

Huey's Cooking Adventures

OK, so am I the only one who finds it wrong on so many levels that a large man wearing suspenders and sporting a handlebar moustache has an afternoon time slot cooking relatively unhealthy foods?

As I was in the kitchen fixing myself a cup of tea (it's about as domestic as I get) I glanced at the TV, and there larger then life was Ian Hewitson with a dark blue shirt and a pair of flashy red suspenders. I would hedge bets that this guy has so many suspenders he could make the worlds largest sling shot and hopefully use it to sling himself away, and off our 3.30pm time slot!

Personally I think suspenders should be banned. My mother in law kindly bought Jim a pair (what a 3 year old needs suspenders for I have no idea). After thanking her for her kindness whilst simultaneously casting Muscle Man a bemused look, I conveniently 'lost' them in the back of his wardrobe. That is until last week in one of his many "Put me to bed hey, I'll show you and trash my room" episodes. Young Jim thought all his Christmases had come at once when he pulled from the cupboard all the lovely (*cough, cough*) things I've stashed in his wardrobe, including a pair of red suspenders!

Well in true 3 year old Dennis the Mennis form, he HAS been using them as a sling shot. Unlucky for him, the cat has not been a willing participant in these escapades. Needless to say, said suspenders are now residing at the top of MY cupboard. Muscle Man thinks they'd make great handcuffs, I think that's disturbing.

Anyway, back to Huey.

I seem to vaguely recall that Mr Hewitson was an advocate for Jenny Craig a few years ago. Another fact that has not been lost on me. Why would a chef who should have an intricate knowledge of healthy cuisine be relying on frozen space snack meals to lose weight? Ironic, surely. I mean, good on him for making lifestyle changes and advocating them, but surely he could achieve that by putting down the oil, or using his suspenders as a skipping rope.

Today I briefly watched him whip together some form of ragout (this word simply has to be said with a rolled rrrrrr and an ooooo sound at the end). Sure enough I watched as lashings of oil, butter, and salt were added. Unquestionably I am not the only one who would love to see healthy, easy meals, suitable for the family and fail-safe (for those like me who regularly burn tinned soup), made with fresh, wholesome ingredients.

Maybe it's not actually his cooking that bothers me so much (I mean, yes it is) but perhaps it is the suspenders. Perhaps it's his jovial "I laugh at my own jokes" manner, or perhaps it's his continual references to Mr Moon. Has anyone EVER seen Mr Moon? Who the heck is Mr Moon? You know, it could even be the manky tea towel which is used to wipe every plate, his hands, clean his suspenders from splash-back, and wipe the bread board.

It could even be the title! "Huey's Cooking Adventures". Let's be honest, there is nothing adventurous about his style of cooking. There is nothing adventurous about his locations. To me adventure would be cooking on the side of an active volcano, dangling a breast of chicken over the molten lava edge to get that smoke house taste (although I suspect smoulder would be the flavour of the day), whilst boiling some rice in a nearby hot spring and steaming asparagus at the same time. Yes, that would warrant the word 'Adventure' in the title.

I think in light of Huey's obvious flaws, it's high time I approached the prime time TV stations with a proposal;

"Alfie's low-fat, family friendly, freezer ready, fat to fabulous, fantastic foods!"

Never mind I can't cook. That's semantics.

Now, in the words of our social cooking example Ian Hewitson; "A dish without wine is an absolute crime, and pants without braces are simply disgraces"

* I made that up, but c'mon, we all know the guy likes a quote at the end of each show!!

My Other Lover

In my pre-fab days my relationship with food was like a love affair. We were always sneaking around together, keeping our love a secret. I was hiding it in my handbag, my bedroom, my desk drawers at work, the glove compartment of the car. I usually had my lover stashed away somewhere easy to access and would devour it in private!

The sad thing is, our relationship was so one-sided. Here I was lovingly stroking and caressing my Cadbury dairy milk, crooning to my chocolate about how much I loved thee before ravishing the hell out of it and seductively licking the remnants off my mouth. Within moments however the feelings of love I had just languished on my bar of chocolate changed from sneaky bliss, to guilt and remorse.

Yep, just like an affair!

It's hard being a bigger person consuming food in public. Even if they are not, you assume people are staring at your choice of food. I'd be sitting at a table at the local food court with my all you can eat Chinese buffet piled so high on my plate that it been a precarious balancing act simply finding a table to scoff at without wearing half of it (that and the fact I couldn't see over the top of my plate).

I'd have lemon chicken, fried rice and spring rolls covering every available inch of my plate. Suddenly, sitting there with Singapore noodles hanging out of my mouth, and plum sauce splashes on my nose, I'd be all too aware that people around me were probably thinking "Look at that fat girl. Look at what she is eating. No wonder she is fat".

The self consciousness would set in and suddenly I'd feel sick to my stomach with my own image. Sadly however, even in times of immense humiliation like this, my affair was so great I'd simply continue eating, all the while telling myself I was just a failure with no will power so I may as well continue enjoying my fried beef in plum.

There were times where I would choose the healthy options. Salad rolls, sushi, subway 6 grams of fat or less, but even then I knew that once in the privacy of my home or car, I'd again return to the comforting arms of my non-judgemental friend, food. The full of saturated fats, let me add to your cottage cheese thighs, kinds of food.

Socially we have an enormous perception that in order to loose weight we need to DIET. To me the word 'diet' conjures up images of starvation, rules, fat pinching calipers, and eventually failure when eating a crouton for breakfast, lunch and dinner no longer suffices (as if it ever did).

Diets in most cases are so futile that we have even invented diets to try and disguise the fact it is a so called diet. Look at Atkins for example. Sure, there were no carbohydrates but there was BACON!! Fatty, crispy, artery clogging, salty and delicious bacon. SOLD! (As were three quarters of Americans. I'd add a great joke here about their intelligence but in this case it would apply to me also, so I'll save myself the personal sledge).

In addition to diets like this, there were also the crazy, guaranteed to shed kilos in a week diets; such as the 'soup diet'. All I ever saw anyone gain from the soup diet was a serious case of flatulence and a permanent aversion to cabbage, and soup.

I can't honestly tell you that my relationship with food is now perfect. It's not. In fact I know on a personal level I still have a way to go before I will be able to look at a bag of hot chips without curling up in the foetal position and rocking back and forth. It could be a little while yet before I can look at a block of chocolate and not get a twitch in my right eye, but for the most part I now make smarter choices. I am trying to live like the French. Not in the arrogance stakes, but certainly in the moderation.

I am NOT on a diet. I am simply making choices which will benefit me now and in the future.

These days when I think of lovingly ripping the wrapper off something, crooning with affection and languishing my love, I try and look for Muscle Man instead of a mars bar.

Muscle Man would like me to add at this point that I mustn't crave the above foods much because he is fairly convinced I never languish love, nor rip his clothes off.

Back Away from the Scales!

If you are anything like me your relationship with the bathroom scales is one that is fraught with tension. One day they are your best friend, the next your worst enemy.

I must admit that over the years I have owned a few sets of scales. Some I have intentionally smashed to bits in fits of dieting rage, others have simply given up the ghost after having me stand on them multiple times a day. Some I deliberately set to be 5 kilograms lighter just to bolster my dying self-esteem (it never worked - I couldn't deceive myself).

Yes, I was one of those people who was obsessed with the number, the amount I weighed. I'd weigh myself before my morning pee, and again after just to double check that the extra kilo I'd gained in the last week wasn't fluid (urine) retention. I'd weigh myself in a variety of outfits, and of course in my birthday suit. I would weigh myself at the start and finish of a day and several times in between just for good measure. I would even go so far as to weigh myself in kilograms, pounds and stones just to see which was nicer! Stones of course! Yes, 12 stone sounded MUCH more respectable than 90 odd kilos!

Muscle Man: "What did the scales say today babe, same as an hour ago?"

Me: "cough, splutter, gulp...12"

Muscle Man: "What was that babe?, Did you say twelve? 12 what?"

Me: "On the twelve days of Christmas my true love gave to me" - cue me exiting room.

Muscle Man is brilliant at maths (I know, not just a set of muscles) and would come in 5 minutes later and think how clever he was that he had figured out my weight in kilograms! Damn him!

I guess you could say that the scales had a sick hold over me. I'd walk past the bathroom and see them taunting me, daring me to jump on and check if the fact I skipped breakfast and taken my shoes off had fashioned into weight loss yet. Being a gluten for punishment I would walk in and delicately place one foot on the scale followed by the other, holding my breath I'd peer down at the display window and pray for a miracle. The minute I saw the number flash up on the screen I'd feel instant despair and then spend the next half an hour berating myself for jumping on in the first instance and the rest of the day berating myself for being so fat to begin with.

The thing was though, I was never really doing anything that warranted the scales going down. Up, yes, down - no. More often than not I was not adequately modifying my food intake, and I was lucky to lift a finger, let alone my whole arse. I was very much of the mindset that one failed meal meant the entire day was an absolute right off and I may as well visit a few drive-thru's to console myself.

When I joined Jenny Craig the first time, I remember walking out after my first official 'weigh in' and sheepishly admitting to Muscle Man what the big digit was. I cried. The road to slenderness was just insurmountable. The scales were my enemy and had never even provided a glimmer of hope that we could be friends, even acquaintance's was pushing the limit in my mind. We had such an unhealthy relationship that I couldn't possibly imagine ever finding success standing on their harrowing surface. Yes, I was doomed. The only answer was to turn to my good friend, Baskin and Robbin's.

Years later when I joined Weight Watchers for the first of gazillion attempts with their program, I was again shocked to see the result. I had a momentary glimmer of hope as I stood on the old style chemist scales. You know the ones with the little weights that have to be slid along and balanced. Well, in my desperation I only looked at the number the smaller weight was resting on. 60kgs, EUREKA! I knew all along I suffered from Body Dysmorphic thing-a-mi-gigga and in that brief second I'd been thin all along. I was on top of the world, naturally within seconds I came crashing down when my flamboyant "leader" advised that the two weights combined put my weight at 85kgs. Off to Baskin and Robbin's.

I have come to believe that scales are evil. Even now some days I'll apparently weigh a kilo less than the day before, or reverse. I know that when a certain time of the month approaches and I grow horns and breathe fire, my weight can go up by as much as 3 kilos for that week. So on-top of being moody, hormonal, teary, angry, happy, hysterical at any given moment I also have to live with the fact that for a whole week I'm as bloated as a life preserver and it's not the kind of bloating a good old fart could fix. No this bloating requires that bloody Slim N Lift Supreme!

It's for this reason (inconsistent numbers, not my bloating) that I think it is really so important to use other measures to track your success. The way clothes fit and feel, the way your skin glows after exercise, the way your body moves more freely and one of my favourites, the measurements lost as the weight slowly, but surely comes off.

In an earlier blog entry I gave my initial body measurements. I started recording my measurements on June 14, 2006. Over the past 23 months I have lost a combined total of 113 cm's off my waist, hips, left and right upper arm, left and right thigh, and my left and right shin. That figure would probably be up around the 150cm mark had I measured my bust (another classic lie) but at the time it was really just far to distressing seeing the shrinkage in the one place I wanted excess fat!

I tried to comprehend 113cm's of extra size on myself the other week but all I could think of was 3.7 thirty centimetre rulers standing one atop the other and it reminded me of a liquorice strap, so naturally I went and ate something instead.

It is also very heartening that so many of my clothes are now too big rather than too small and some I could use on my next camping trip as a sleeping bag or tent. Even better add a spinica and rope and I have pants which would make an excellent sail. It's great to look in the mirror and only see a small muffin top these days rather than the whole bakery.

Now days I only stand on the scales intermittently and usually I am ready with a stash of carrot sticks to console me rather than the ice-cream. Oh not to mention I am always armed with the mental come back - Muscle weighs more than fat you know ;o)

Love is Blind

So they say. Perhaps though this is partially true.

After yesterday's blog, Sexy Twin sent me an email which said; "Its crazy how skinny you are now, or how I never thought you were that big". Well, first and foremost HOORAY to being called "skinny" (I'll pay you later Twin) and secondly, how did she not see that I was so much bigger?

Sexy Twin is not the only person I know to have made these observations. Mum has also commented that I was "never really that big to start with". Compared to what, an elephant? 20 kilos is 20 kilos right. It's more weight than my 3 yr old and 7 month old combined. It's more weight than my enormous twin jogging pram (true story). It's even believe it or not, more weight than Muscle Man's right bicep, which I might add, is rather bloody large (he'll pay me later).

I recall at a Weight Watchers meeting once being shown a one kilogram replica of a lump of fat! Disgusting. Well, if I piled up 20 of those lump's we'd have one HUGE pyramid of fake lard! Yep, 20 kilos is not to be sneezed at. Even 5 kilos is a fantastic achievement. Realistically for SO many people even the slightest amount of weight gain can be enough to alter their whole perception of themselves and shatter ones self confidence. Those feelings are not mutually exclusive to those in the 'obese' category.

Back to Mum and Sexy Twin. I've thought a lot about it, and I completely understand why they could not see me the way I was. The way I looked outside genuinely did not matter to the ones I loved. They saw the daughter who loved her job and was good at it, the sister who was good at organising things and loved hosting parties, the friend who was loyal and "motherly". What they didn't see was the shy, self-loathing, embarrassed, unworthy me that I saw. The me that I kept hidden away.

I realised as I was thinking about this, the fact the people who loved me couldn't see my obvious weight flaw said so much about them, and even more about me. It said that they valued the traits about me which were not connected to a size 10 or 12 pair of jeans. The traits that were not applied in the form of makeup to pull the focus away from my body, the traits that were from the heart. The REAL qualities of a human being. Meanwhile, when I looked at myself I saw none of these things, or if I did, it was a way to replace the true self consciousness I had over my size. Put simply, I did not love myself. I saw EVERY flaw rather than a few. I saw the flaws rather than seeing any of the wonderful things about me. The unique things that make me ME.

How can someone genuinely change their lives, or change their habits if they don't believe, or feel, worthy of the change? Why would you even bother? This was how I felt for so many years.

Just before Angel's (younger sisters code name remember) wedding I actually had another potential "light-bulb" moment involving Muscle Man's cousin. Myself, Sexy Twin and our friend, JP (who is said cousin's partner) were having a few drinks when somehow the discussion of weight loss and body size came up. I honestly can't recall the exact details or In's and outs of that conversation but I will never forget that for some reason I asked Muscle Man's cousin if he thought I needed to loose weight. He said "YES".

At first I was so indignant. I was so angry that he had answered truthfully. Why the heck hadn't he lied? Didn't he know when we women say we want the truth we mean the truth we WANT to hear. It was the first time someone had said I needed to loose weight and I couldn't shake it off. I'd been called names before, but previously it was easier to put it down to credentials. Random strangers, or vicious girls from school spreading salacious gossip was easier to chalk down to plain bitchiness. This on the other hand, was simply an honest answer to a question I had asked.

Naturally I came home and fell into a heap in the enveloping arms of my Muscle Man. He soothed me and said it was just not true (see, he knew what I wanted to hear!). Deep down though, I couldn't shake the knowing feeling that it was. It was true. I needed to loose weight before it engulfed any more of my life.

In hindsight I realised that I actually appreciated the honesty and the risk that Muscle Man's cousin took by telling me he did think I could lose some weight. It hurt at the time because even though I knew I needed too, I had also somehow convinced myself that the problem was mostly mine. I thought perhaps I saw myself worse than others did, and hidden inside my gigantic jumpers, jackets, scarves and high heels (you know, the illusion of height and slenderness) that no one really could see how big I was. In hindsight he did me a favour.

I honestly can say that I now love myself. I have gained self-respect and a genuine feeling of self-worth. In many ways I loathe that it came about from weight loss. Social engineering if you will. However, I would prefer to think that rather than finding self love because I am now attached to a size 12 pair of jeans, it's because I value myself enough to fight for me. Enough to make me get off my butt and keep fit. Enough to aim for longevity and fitness with my kids. I love myself enough to know that I feel better without the added stress of a 20 kilo pyramid of lard attached to my butt, thighs and belly.

Before anything else; before you put the joggers on and go for a walk, before you cut up the veggies for tonight's stir fry, before you sign up to your local Weight Watchers to see your own pyramid of fat, ask yourself - DO I LOVE ME? If the answer is no, then please let me tell you, it's time to start.

The tent known formally as a Jumper!

It's pretty nerve wracking putting pics of myself up on the net. Sure, sure, some may think I am an exhibitionist and in my former college days with a bit of grape juice under my belt, I have been known to flash a collar bone or two. But putting these "fat" pictures up is actually quite difficult. It's hard for me to accept I looked like that. Hard to put the vanity to the side and acknowledge the changes between the two.

None the less, for the sake of self motivation (having a mental "fat" day) I thought I would share some "before and after" pics.

Honestly, these pics are all just plain frightening! The quality and resolution is doing no one any favours but I think if you see past my pixelated face you get the idea :o)

"I've Just had a Baby"

So, how long is that comment plausible for I wonder? For me, after the birth of Jim I was still using it as my justification for eating copious amounts of food and sitting on my big bazoo well into his second year of life. It was my tried and tested excuse for everything. "I can't possibly walk with you today Muscle Man, I've just had a baby" I'd be saying this as Jim would be running past, singing his ABC's and competently peeling his own banana. Yep, very much a baby, right!

It was really the same as when I was pregnant and I was eating for two. One donut for me, one for the baby, one Big Mac for me, one for the baby. Of course during these 'eating for two' pregnancy binges I was never thinking about the fact that only ONE of us would have to do the work to burn it off and get back to having 2 thighs instead of 4!

In all honesty though, both pregnancy and post partum are very difficult times for many women (myself included) when it comes to accepting the changes our body is, and has, made. Even without the help of shares in McDonald's I am confident that some of the changes which have taken place on my body would have still occurred regardless of what I did or did not eat. I am convinced I must have had a pre-disposition to stretch marks, and sadly I am not just talking one or two little red marks on the side of my hips. No, I am talking about the angry, fiery red ones that were so big in some places they now look something like an accordion of skin (gross!).

I also had the very deceptive problem of my boobs growing so big that I could have given half the Playboy Bunny's a run for their money (only in the boob department I might add). That is until I had a baby literally suck the life and size right out of them within a few short months. Now the only person I could give a run for their money in the chest area is Muscle Man. Even sadder, it's a close call with his muscular pectoral area! There were many times when Jim would ask for "booby" and I'd want to palm him off to his Dad!

After Jim's birth I felt very despondent about my appearance. Despite having been a big girl before I fell pregnant with him, I can't say I had ever experienced the problem of excess skin. Suddenly I was dealing with a new baby, shrinking boobs, a stretched jelly belly and an unwanted flap of skin. I wanted to pack that excess skin up with a little red handkerchief tied to a stick and a pop tent and tell it to find a new place of residence, oh and while it was at it, return my disappearing boobs thank you very much!

It's odd when you think about how the human mind works. Here I was feeling so depressed about my appearance and yet attempting to quash the sentiment with anything deep fried and loaded with sugar. And I thought I was not an emotional eater! Pfft!

I stupidly assumed all through Jim's pregnancy that breastfeeding would finally be my ticket out of the grey and bleak land of fattydom (yes, I've made up a word). My own Mum was one of these women who left the hospital with a new baby, smaller then when she fell pregnant. Especially after the birth of Sexy Twin and I (cows...the lactating variety of course). Yes, breastfeeding was my free ride to battling the bulge. How wrong I was.

There are a few myths I have learnt from parenting. You know, the things well meaning people tell you about losing weight after the birth of a baby to make you feel better about your Jupiter sized buttock's. Examples;

Myth: Breastfeeding will melt the weight right off you.

Truth: Not if you are me it won't. In fact what breastfeeding will do is leave you ravishing with hunger so you eat everything in sight and then gain more weight then you had at 9 months pregnant! Even after Bob's birth and eating very sensibly, breastfeeding did NOT melt the weight right off.

Myth: When you are a parent, you are so busy chasing kids around and cleaning up after them that you lose weight, or simply never gain it.

Truth: OK, perhaps this would be true if I wasn't chasing the kids and the ice-cream truck at the same time. And perhaps if I DID clean up, and chase around after my hurricane Jim I'd burn a few calories. In any event I actually still am not convinced that this is a method of weight loss that would meet a Dr's approval.

Myth: Waking through the night to feed a baby will burn more calories as you are feeding more.

Truth: Founder of this myth, you're an idiot.

Jokes aside though, I do want to share my thoughts on weight loss after pregnancy.

I completely understand how frustrating it is seeing your previously glowing (and bursting) belly looking like a deflated balloon. I understand how incredibly annoying it is being in-between sizes with clothes. After Jim I didn't fit back into my "pre-pregnancy" clothes for a very long time. I was still trying to wear elastic waist pants 14 months after he was born (basically I lived in pyjamas). I also understand all too well that the pressure and personal expectations we place on ourselves can be unrealistic and emotionally draining.

It certainly does not help that we live in a society that splashes pictures of celebrities walking out of hospital, new baby in arm, bikini on body, nanny in tow. Usually the headline is some sensationalist crap announcing "Sue Smith's amazing after baby body and how she did it".
Quite simple really, she had her plastic surgeon, make-up artist, bikini designer, Yoga instructor and shot of wheat grass all on stand by for that grand exit. How can a mere mortal like me possibly stand a chance!

Yes, the saying "it took 9 months to put the weight on and 9 to take it off" is true. We mothers need to be kind to ourselves. We are our own worst critics about a myriad of other issues and it's probably high time we put the emphasis back on praising the female body for it's amazing ability to sustain life. Take those first few months easy. Fatten up your breast milk with a Tim Tam and then put your beautiful baby in a pram and go for a walk (and make sure you add at least one hill).

As for that flap of skin - sadly only half of it took my offer of a pop tent and moved on. The other half is now Jim's favourite spot to get a decent bear hug with Mum.

Weather Conditions

Before I was a fit and fab Mamma I had numerous excuses up my sleeve to ardently avoid any form of strenuous activity. Even in the bedroom Muscle Man was left with the brunt of anything energy exerting and when it came to physical activity, hanging nappies on the clothesline was about as good as it got for me.

I was not always deliberately lazy I might add. Growing up, Sexy Twin and I played netball with the Primary School team. In High school I enjoyed a brief stint in the girls rowing team, and for a few fleeting months, Nardi and I, along with some other girlfriends, formed a women's basketball team. It's also worth noting that Sexy Twin and I were required to ride our push bikes to school and back each day for many years (a 14 kilometre round trip). Rain, hail or shine. One of the happiest days of my young life was the day Sexy Twin and I had our bikes stolen. From that moment Mum was forced to drive us to school every day, or fork out for a bus ticket. Yes, it was a great, and lazy day.

Yep, in my very youthful school years I was pretty active. Growing up as a child in the delightful 80's and early 90's we partook in cubby house building, bike races (until mine was stolen), swimming in the dirty leech infested creek (ewww, this still gives me the heebie jeebies), climbing trees and running bare foot every where we went. Yes, those were the days. Hypercolour was cool and it was perfectly normal to not return home until dinner was being placed on the table, after having left the house at the crack of a sparrows fart that morning. Hardly anyone we knew was "fat", and life was simple and care free for a young whipper snapper like me.

It was around high school (year 8 camp remember) that this all changed. Then that I became somewhat corrupted by body image and low self esteem. Sure, in year 10 at high school I was in the rowing team for a few months, but mainly that just consisted of horrible early morning starts where we would row as fast and far away from our coach as we could and then sit in the middle of the lake singing Disney songs (I agree, what the heck was I doing singing The Little Mermaid at age 16).

Anyway, I digress (as usual)... years before Jim was born, and for at least 12 months after, exercise did not exist for me. I'd been scared off by that magpie for one, and was just too darn lazy to try again. I had a million excuses to stay planted on my arse (as we all do). Some were reasonable; Magpies for example, some were just flat out pathetic (hair washing day for one).

One guaranteed excuse was always the weather. It was either too hot, too cold, too windy, too rainy, too Autumn, too Summer, too Winter or Spring. The elements were the perfect excuse by far. If it rained it was even better as no one in their right mind works out in the rain right! Yes, every season came with it's own list of reasons to avoid putting on the Lycra and getting physical.

When I purchased my treadmill it unwittingly removed so many of these excuses. Not even now with duct tape holding the cord together in places do I feel I have a justifiable reason to not exercise on most occasions, or weather conditions. Christmas Day even saw me racing home in between lunch and dinner to run a cool 6kms on the tready before indulging in Peach Schnapps Cocktails with the fam.

Obsessive, yes possibly. But then the way I also look at it is that by moving my butt each day I am allowing myself the opportunity to indulge in the peach schnapps without the added guilt of not having earned them (yep, the "earning" thing again).

This afternoon I decided Muscle Man and I would go for another run around the lake. Herding the family into the car like a sheep dog, I was trying to mentally prepare myself for the head wind I was sure we would encounter. The car was having trouble staying it's course on the road it was THAT windy. What were we in for.

Well off we set, kids rugged up with gloves, beanies, blankets, hot water bottles (OK, that's a lie). Muscle Man and I again in running attire. We had not jogged 1 kilometre when we were both assaulted with a vicious gust of wind. Can I just say, that on days like today I feel sorry for anyone wearing a toupee! Not even the strongest wig glue would stand a chance in winds like these.

Willow trees were blowing about in the blustery conditions and the usually flat lake was making record waves at 10cm's high. Muscle Man and I took it in turns to push the pram and each time we'd swap over the non-pram-pusher would suddenly and unexpectedly surge ahead without the added weight and wind barrier of a twin pram with a rain cover and 30 something kilos of children's weight.

As we rounded the final bend and the last 2 kilometres, I was acutely aware that this was the exact kind of day I would formally have stayed firmly indoors without a seconds thought. I'd have been sitting on the couch, woolen rug over my legs, family cat on my lap, cuppa in hand (OK, hot chocolate in hand) feeling very justified at doing nothing. It was simply too cold and too windy, of course.

Well, not anymore. I have and do now jog in the rain, hail, sun and WIND. I exercise in Autumn, Winter, Summer and Spring. The funny thing is, the season I refused to exercise in the most (winter) is actually now my favourite. After all, how much easier would it be to simply stay indoors?

Pay Off

Muscle Man and I are home from our run. Was much easier than I had expected tonight (gotta love that). We powered around the lake, Jim and Bob in winter woollies, Muscle Man and I in shorts and singlets.

It has to be said, the after exercise endorphin and satisfaction ROCKS!! It's worth every agonising, procrastinating step.

Yep, it certainly has a worthwhile pay off :o)

Body Image and Perception

Body Image - are we ever truly happy with ours? I know I have moments where I think "yep, I look OK today" but then I also scrutinise every little detail and wonder if I will ever truly be happy with my body. Will I ever feel 'finished' in terms of trying to change my shape, or lose more weight.

I'd be completely lying if I said that I am at my goal (or ideal) weight right now. I am not. I am still on the quest to shed a few kilos, and to be honest I am not sure if I'll ever reach a point where I think that's it, I am done. I guess the reality of this is also the fact that there is no such thing as done.

Sure, I can be done with weighing myself, or obsessing over clothing size, and weight lost; but from now on I understand that fitness and health has to be an every day motion. Like cleaning my teeth or getting dressed.

I have moments where I despair that if I don't eat less and move more every day I won't maintain my weight loss. I have moments where I curse the fact I was not born with an impeccable gene structure which naturally leaves me as a svelte size 10, irrespective of what I eat or whether I ever intentionally work up a sweat. It's hard. It's really hard knowing that this journey, this weight loss and fitness road that I have been on, will never really end.

Most days I am OK with this. Some however, like today, I find it very depressing thinking that I may still have thousands of kilometres to walk and run in my life time just to stake a claim at longevity and health! Today quite frankly, I can't be arsed. Today I want to throw in the towel and say "no more". Today I want to pick up a family sized block of chocolate and wallow in laziness and wasted calories.

To me a diet was something you went on for a period of time, and then it ended. I'd never thought that it really was a lifestyle change. A change involving every choice you make regarding your health, each and every day. Eat well and exercise for the rest of my life after loosing weight - yeah, no thanks, I'll pass.

Last night before getting into bed, I put on a satin slip (no this is not about to get X rated). I have a few items of clothing which I guess you could call "sexy". I've worn them very rarely, if ever. After all, I've never really thought I was sexy and why wear something you don't feel.

To me, sexy meant having perky boobs, a stomach which you could crack an egg on, slender thighs, curves in all the right places and a pair of stiletto heels (it's the pole dancing I tell you, it's corrupted me). I posses none of the above. As I pulled the slip over my head and stood in front of the mirror, I fleetingly felt sexy. Sadly, within moments of this brief feeling, I managed to put the 'sexy me' straight back in her place and point out my obvious flaws. Love handles leaving little bulges in the satin, complete lack of perky rack, a bubble bum, and no stilettos. Not to mention I have not shaved my legs for a few days so have a rather lovely winter coat on the grow. Poor Muscle Man has had to remind me that a winter coat is all very well and good with the exception of the fact it's not actually winter in bed.

As I hurriedly climbed under the blankets and away from my self-critique in front of the mirror, I wondered if every women does what I had just done. Do we all self criticise and focus so blatantly on the things WE don't like without seeing the things which are beautiful?

The next thought I pondered was about perception. I often wonder if other people perceive my physical appearance the way I do, or if they see something completely different. Do they see the flaws I see, or worse still, do they see flaws I am yet too? How does one learn to love these personal flaws, or at best accept them? How does one trust that the other qualities we posses outweigh any blemishes we see?

I guess on some level this comes down to the 'self-talk' we give ourselves. Mine was programed for so long to only note my faults. My self talk was all destructive. Over many years I had completely convinced myself I was nothing but an overweight failure. My weight and my own feelings regarding body image seeped into every aspect of my life. Every day I was literally setting myself up to fail, I knew no other way.

It has to be said that I am a very good actor. I had lead roles in two High school drama productions, I knew how to paint a smile on my face, how to confidently speak in front of a group of people, how to laugh at decent punch lines, how to "play" happy. All in all, I knew how to falsely portray myself as entirely self confident and happy person. The problem was when you stripped down to the core of me I was nothing but an unhappy, image obsessed teenager who loathed her self image and felt repulsed by her naked, or clothed body. These feelings continued into my adult life and I carried them with me everywhere I went. They were the monkey on my back and the devil in my ear.

One of the first things that had to change before I could succeed in loosing weight, was the way I spoke to myself. I had to instantly dismiss hurtful, negative thoughts, with positive, empowering ones. I had to learn how to break the habit of self destruction and begin the path to self belief. They say it takes 6 weeks to break a habit. It's taken me roughly 100 weeks and I am still learning.

I think I need a new motto. My motto has been "I CAN" and now I genuinely do believe and know I can because, put simply, I do. I think it's time to graduate to a new motto. A motto about self image. I need to change the self talk from "look at those flaws" to "embrace those curves" or something equally as corny and cliched.

I know I have a little way to go yet. I know I might never look in the mirror and think I am worth ravaging, I may only feel sexy in moments of fleeting glory, and I may have days at a time where I hate jogging, hate weights, hate walking. Such is life, but I am also aware that I will have days where I will continue to choose the options that will benefit my health and my mind. So, on that note, rather than indulging in my cadbury's chocolate I am going to drag my bubble butt for a jog around the lake. I think I'll drag Muscle Man along also. A little healthy competition's a good thing right?!

Before I go, ask yourself some questions. Do you talk down to yourself? Do you BELIEVE you are worthy of change, and worthy of more than negativity? If so, what can your new motto be?

Feel free to share! Besides, I am in the market for a new one also ;o)

An Old Feeling

Being on this side of the fence (i.e. the "I've lost weight side") it is sometimes easy to forget how unhappy and emotional I was on the 'I think I am the size of a house side'. However, realistically I have not forgotten those feelings because so far they still continue to outweigh the number of years I've felt 'great' for.

I was overweight for a number of years. Sure, I was never the "biggest" girl in School and I was still perhaps on the smaller side of "obese", but let's be honest, when you personally know that you have weight to loose it doesn't really help that compared to some you may be smaller (or at least to me it didn't). I guess also, I need to reiterate that to me it was always hard because I was unintentionally measuring myself against an identical twin sister who was slim.

In High school I had an embarrassing crush on a guy in my English class. He was also one of my best friends neighbours. I thought he was a dream. At the time, my friend and I shared a letter writing book (hey, it was cool back then) and almost every entry to her was a letter from me professing my love for said guy. You know the kind;

"Dear Diary (friend), today he did the cutest thing. He tied his shoelace. Oh my gosh, I've never seen anyone loop a rabbit through a hole the way he did. I can't help it, I am in love. Meet me at the lockers so I can show you the pencil sharpening's he threw away (and I collected) in Science class.

Signed, Mrs Alfie *insert his surname here*"

I have a vivid memory of being on year 8 camp, my girlfriend and I were going through a tragic Celine Dion phase. We had our Walkman linked between the two of us, walking the length of the beach, one ear phone each; listening to the heartfelt strains of Celine's Heart going on. Every time I heard the chorus I'd be dreaming of myself and this guy holding hands, him declaring his undying 13 year old love to me. Tragic Bliss!

One night on camp a group of my friends decided to play "truth and dare". We wrangled said guy's 'group' into joining us also. The dares started off innocent enough. Eat sand, run a lap of the beach, do the chicken dance, streak across the beach (hey, I said they STARTED innocent). Then we got onto the 'truth' segment of the night. Again it started innocent; when was your first kiss, favourite teacher, biggest secret. Then one of the girls asked the boys to declare who out of the girls present they were either attracted to, or would choose as their girlfriend (guaranteed to offend someone in hindsight).

As I sat there around the fire on the middle of the beach, I recall so vividly my 13 year old heart beating with nerves and then tearing as the guy I was so smitten with announced he liked Sexy Twin. The theme continued. Almost every single guy in the circle also declaring she was their pick. It took all my resolve not to cry right there.

Upon reflection it was nothing to do with the fact Sexy Twin had admirers, or that she was cat nip to 13 year old, prepubescent boys. No, it was just the fact that at that stage I had never encountered a situation where she and I were not equal. Where we were not 'sharing' the boyfriend, or chasing the same one away. Until then I'd never really understood that anyone might see us as anything other than one in the same, looks included.

Tragically, that moment was one of my very first "I'm fat" moments. You know, I don't even know if I was 'overweight' then. I know I couldn't wear the same midriff top or cut off jeans she did, but until then I am not sure if I had consciously put it down to size. I don't know if it was a natural defense mechanism to protect my aching young heart, or if simply being female I had to put my rejection down to something, and that fit the bill. Either way, I think that moment heralded one of the first "I am unworthy" moments in my I am "FAT" life.

I am not sure if I should confess that at the same camp, despite my 13 year old aching heart, I did go home with a boyfriend. It's quite embarrassing, and yet at the same time, shameful, to admit I ended up dating (for the next 3 years) the one guy in that circle of friends who said he fancied me. Either way, the fact has never escaped me that from the age of 13, I settled for second best and thought I was worthy of even less.

Stay tuned.....

Muscle Man

Given Muscle Man features in almost every blog entry I thought perhaps I would give him one all too himself. He has after all, been a big influence in both my weight gains and loss.

Muscle Man and I have known each other since I was a very young girl, in Primary School. Before becoming MY Muscle Man, he was childhood friends with my older brother. Such a cliche I know!

Muscle Man is a fraction older than me, so naturally when I was parading around in piggy tales and my care-bears t-shirt, he and older brother were undoubtedly trying to be cool with their Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle cards and NOT annoying younger sisters. I am sure Sexy Twin and I had many a crush on our older brothers mates but in true sibling form, to avoid cramping his style, he and his friends socialised away from the "twins" prying eyes and shameless flirting.

Many years later, all grown up (that's entirely subjective) and moved out of home, I had not given Muscle Man a second, or even first thought (sorry darling). At the time I was working at Darrell Lea chocolates (how ironic) in the city. It was obvious I had eaten my mistakes and in between serving customers I would be sucking on peanut brittle and wondering why my sexy crepe pants were shrinking in the wash.

Well, one day Muscle Man strolled nonchalantly past the store and spotted me. I am sure I looked an amusing sight and his insistence on saying hello was surely out of bemused curiosity that his mates sister was all grown up, dressed like a clown, and working in a chocolate shop. I was wearing a lovely candy-stripped shirt, a bow tie (embarrassing or what) and had chocolate smudged around my mouth from my last in-between-customers scoff. None the less, Muscle Man came in that day, and continued coming in each day for weeks. He used the guise of checking the 'work post box' which was located just behind Darrell Lea.

After some weeks Muscle Man asked to take me out to lunch. "Sure, I'll take your free feed, where are we going? is there a buffet? let me just grab my jacket, and a choccie for the road".

Well, the rest as they say is almost history. After 8 months of 'dating' Muscle Man asked me to be Muscle Women in a very extravagant display inclusive of a mystery flight, scavenger hunt, 36 red roses, bottle of Moet and a lovely big rock at the end of it. 10 months after this we were hitched! I've now served 5 years of this life sentence ;o)

From day one of our relationship, I knew Muscle Man was a little sport obsessed. Over the years he has played soccer and AFL and frequents the gym weekly. Early on in our marriage he made the silly mistake of confiding in me that his dream women had always been a sporty brunette. Sorry Buck, you are now married to a chubby blonde and you better start making up for that comment if you want a bed companion tonight!

Naturally at times he couldn't understand the low self-worth I had. Fitness is such a black and white subject to him so it was often the cause of angst in our home. Muscle Man grew up in a sporty family. His parents frequent the gym daily and his sister is a professional sports aerobics something-or-other. In fact she is currently ranked 6th in the World for sports aerobics. For me, the pressure was on. What had I gotten myself into.

However, despite our differences, over the years Muscle Man has been quite supportive and has forked out, or budgeted for every attempt at weight loss I have made. Whilst he couldn't always understand my emotions and the feelings of failure I experienced, he has more often than not tried to support me in whatever I have needed.

When I finally began loosing weight, and keeping it off, Muscle Man was right beside me offering words of encouragement and affirming my efforts. We often go jogging together now days and take great pleasure in ribbing each other about our exercises of choice. His being weight lifting and mine being running. I can run faster then him, but of course he can lift more weights then I would ever dream of.

Sexy Twins 8 yr old daughter called Muscle Man "Fabio" once. It was hilarious coming from the mouth of babes as they say, and in jest we call him Fabio still. Personally I think he quite likes it and I am sure in secret practises his "I can't believe it's not butter" in front of the mirror. Muscles bulging, top button on shirt undone.

I am still not 'sporty' and despite being the Mother of boys, I still can't see a love of sport ever really happening. The only aspect of sport I like is the beer (and even then I am a vino gal). But, I am fit now and I think Muscle Man recognises that this was just as important to him.

All in all, I must admit I am quite fond of Muscle Man's muscles (now that I have some of my own to show off). In any event, as I said to him, every good read needs a character of comic value. He can be mine.

Gadgets and Gimmicks

Being a stay at home Mum at present, I am often subjected to television advertisements throughout the day (or in between Dr Phil) for numerous exercise machines, DVDs, pills and shakes.

We have the Ab King Pro (Sexy Twin wants one of these), the Bo-Flex machine (do you have a Bo flex body?), the Bean (some random abdominal sculpting bean bag). Windsor Pilate's DVDs (I own these - not bad) and an assortment of others. My favourite is the adverts for 'celebrity slim'. Has anyone seen a "celebrity" advertising this protein shake based diet? Doubt it, and no Kat from the Biggest Loser series 1 does not count!

Let's face it, there is a HUGE industry in weight loss. It's not even about overall health these days. Nope, it mostly seems directed at loosing inches off your waist and sculpting your butt, abs and thighs, the "3 minutes a day" way.

Whilst I appreciate the sentiments, it does concern me that as a whole, society does not seem to put sufficient emphasis on making healthy lifestyle choices. Even programs such as Lite N Easy and Jenny Craig do not actually teach consumers much about every food day choices. Sure, portion control (aka: starvation) may be learned but aside from this all I really learnt was how to expertly microwave a frozen dinner and then stare at my empty plate like Oliver Twist wishing there was more!

For the most part I generally think that the majority of people KNOW what foods will fuel the body. In Australia I am fairly confident that we all grew up with some knowledge of the healthy pyramid chart, and as a rule I think it's a a great chart to follow. Sure, I wish the fats and oils were the breads and grains, but hey beggars can't be choosers right!

Over the years I have had many a gym membership and looked for multiple get fit quick (try saying that 6 times fast) options. I wanted to be slimmer so desperately I almost always banished thoughts of actually being thin the minute they arose, knowing I'd failed before, and would inevitably again. It was just to darn depressing thinking about something which had always just been such a pipe dream. No, it was easier to dream of things I could have; bacon for breakfast, mars bar for morning tea, the chip and lolly aisle at Woolworth's for lunch.

Each night before bed I would wish that I could wake up the next morning magically thinner. Each new diet or exercise program I embarked on I wanted results immediately and each time the long term effort required dissuaded any genuine effort on my behalf. However, I was willing to spend whatever it cost to loose weight. And often, I did. Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, Lite N Easy, Windsor Pilate's, gym memberships, Jane Fonda videos (how embarrassment), bucket loads of glad wrap (don't ask), shakes, protein powders and I'll even admit to diet pills. Heck, if I could have paid someone to diet and exercise for me I would have (wouldn't we all).

Whilst I appreciate the benefit of gym's (Muscle Man's an avid fan) I also appreciate that anyone can loose weight without the token gym membership. Muscle Man is spurred on by his reflection in the vast expanse of mirrors in the weight lifting section and probably just stops short of kissing his "gun's" whilst lifting his weights. I, on the other hand HATED seeing my body attempting to get fit in the mirrors and would always vie for a spot at the back of any class. Body Balance was especially scary. Seeing myself try and fold up like a pretzel was never bound to be a pretty sight for anyone let alone me when my foot got caught in a roll of back fat! Body Pump was equally as scary when I had trouble lifting the bar, let alone applying weights. Nope, even now gyms are not for me.

I recall at one of the many Weight Watchers meetings I attended, the leader suggesting we lift weights at home using household items. She suggested using tin cans of soup, spaghetti or baked beans. Did she mean to lift them before or after I'd consumed the contents? In any event is a 500g tin of food, I'd rather be eating, really going to help me loose weight? Each arm curl would inevitably just come into visual contact and cause my stomach to rumble in hunger. After 10 reps with my tin can I'd have changed the reps from tin can to chin, to fork to mouth.

Each and every one of us (OK, with the exception of a few), are already equipped with the tools we need to be active. If you have two feet and a heart beat you are good to go! I do understand the time restraints we are pressed with these days. I too have to make time to exercise. When Jim and Bob are down for a nap, I jog on my treadmill. When Muscle Man gets home from work, I am out the door on my run. When Jim and Bob are watching the Wiggles for the umpteenth (my Mum's favourite word) time a day I lift weights in my lounge room, when I return to work I will jog in my lunch break. Making time for exercise is like any other daily event. You have to CHOOSE to make the time and schedule it in.

Whatever your preference be it gyms, local footpaths, the Ab King Pro, a tin can I rather like the Nike Slogan - JUST DO IT.

Reward Yourself

When I first began my successful journey to finally shed the kilos I tried to visualise myself at the end. I started with a somewhat unrealistic picture of a sexy Bo Derek me walking out of a calm blue ocean onto golden sand, my head seductively flicking my mane of hair as water beaded off my sun-tanned body. Every eye on the beach mesmerised by my new svelte figure.

Surprisingly this image did not inspire me. Perhaps it was the stretch marks on my belly so lovingly left behind by Jim's arrival. Perhaps it was the fact I had cellulite on my thighs which even now refuses to completely budge. Or perhaps it was the fact that even if I did manage to lose enough weight, gain a 6 pack (the stomach kind, not the beverage) and grab a tan like good ol' Bo's I still wouldn't have the mental confidence to wear a string bikini with gold fringing at the nether regions. Surely, it had to be the gold string bikini I found so off putting ;o)

Realistically however, I think it was more to do with the fact that I was aspiring to be something I actually never will be. I do have a road map of stretchies on my belly from both bubs expansion in-utero. I am truly human and have the odd cottage cheese thigh (make that two) and sadly, I have one breast which seriously outshines the other in the size department. Yep, let's face it, I am human, a typical poster girl for a busy suburban Mum.

Hollywood and media advertising have a lot to answer for when it comes to images of what we think the perfect women looks like. We automatically think of the 'Elle's' of this world and aspire to what seems to be bodily perfection. However, for many of us we'd be grateful with a little shrinkage in the hip department, a stomach which was at best taut, and a butt which does not require it's own post code.

Once I realised I was aiming for things which are not entirely healthy (or realistic), I decided to redefine my goals. I changed my desire to be like Bo, to a desire to be fit, strong, confident, happy, and sexy in my own skin. When I changed my thinking I began to see my body for the amazing things it has done and not the things it might never be. I saw my stretch marks as signs that my body was able to carry life. I saw my right breast (yes, only my right) as a source of nutrition and comfort for my babies, and I saw my cellulite and cushy butt as a sign of a soft and comfortable place to sit at the end of a hard day.

Along the way to realising and appreciating these things I rewarded myself. A massage here, a chocolate there. New clothes at times and shoes to match (of course). I try and reward myself quite often to acknowledge my success. I'll buy a face mask and plan a night of pampering. A hot chocolate, or dinner, out with friends. Clothes which allow my curves to be seen in all their glory, an hour at a day spa to allow someone else to work away my muscle pain from jogging, lingerie for Muscle Man (hmm, that reads well). Yes, rewards are essential. They not only affirm the hard work we do, but they also give meaning to the sweat, tears and tantrums (kids and mine) along the way.

I absolutely still have moments where I look in a mirror naked and frighten myself. I have days at a time where I'll wish I had a get rich quick scheme so I could have a Mummy tuck, a 'left' breast enhancement, and liposuction. I have moments where I catch a glimpse of my butt and cringe and then worry that if I turn around to fast I'll knock the kids down (jokes). I know that to some degree I probably always will have these little hang ups. None the less I can honestly say that these moments are now fewer then the ones where I feel immense satisfaction with all my body can and has achieved. And for that, I reward myself. I have indeed come along way.

Besides, I always thought I was born in the wrong era of time, I'd have been a supermodel in the days of Venus paintings.

Emotional Eating

I never used to think I was an emotional eater. To me emotional eating conjured up images of being surrounded by multitudes of Canberra Show type foods. Fairy floss, meat pies, dagwood dogs (what the heck kinda name is dagwood anyway), popcorn, deep fried mars bars, and numerous other foods dripping with that "you're at the show" fatty goodness! I then pictured myself sitting squarely in the centre of these foods, tissue box on hand, sappy 'chick flick' on the box, tears streaming down my face and food falling out my gob as I reach for my next fat laden, artery clogging item. No, based on my own image, I was not an emotional eater (or so I thought).

Over the last few weeks I've been finding myself at home quite a bit. I am not involved in a mothers group, am not cut out for 'motherly' activities such as walks to the park, autumn leaf crayon drawings (you know, the ones where you colour over the underside of a leaf blah blah), am not akin to play centres and sadly do not have the money to spend on visits to the zoo and the like (who am I kidding, it would be coffee dates and shopping sprees anyway). So, being at home with my two darling boys, Jim and Bob, I have found myself feeling rather bored at times. And you know what I do when I am bored, yep I eat!

It's staggering how many times I walk past my pantries (we are blessed (or cursed) with two separate pantries) open the doors and survey the options. Even though we very rarely have unsavoury foods in our house I still find myself opening the cupboards willing that chocolate to magically appear. In moments of weakness I confess, I have even looked at a roll of ready made marzipan icing and wondered if that would suffice for a sugar craving.

I have made some fairly interesting concoctions in times of weakness. Mashed potato for morning tea (naturally, that comes with lashings of milk and butter), melted cheese salada's, (I agree, it sounds foul), greek yogurt smothered in milo, and of course you can't go wrong with anything lathered in peanut butter or nutella (unless of course it comes with a side dish of anaphylactic shock in which case I'd say you probably can)!

Yep, when it comes to emotional eating. I am guilty. However, I think it's probably more appropriate to say that when it comes to ANYTIME eating, I am guilty. I feel bored, I eat, I walk past the cupboard, I eat, I'm contemplating housework, I eat. Angry, sad, mad or glad, yep you guessed it - I eat!

I guess I should note that I do not succumb to moments of weakness every day. I am actually generally quite controlled and know that I have to be in order to keep said control. I also know that the secret to a good 'scoff my face' session is that I have to work extra hard on my next run, or lift a few extra weights. In this regard it evens out at times. It's also for this reason that I am NOT on a diet. I try as often as possible to eat sensible foods, have reasonable servings, regular snacks, and low fat/low sugar foods. None the less, if I want chocolate or yogurt milo, I'll eat it - BUT, most of the time I'll regret it when I think of the extra 2 kilometres I'll have to jog to prevent it landing directly on my love handles (another stupid name - nothing loving about floppy chunks of fat which hang over ones hip bone and inevitably lead to a muffin top). No, the marzipan roll certainly ain't worth that!

So, next time you go to raid your pantry in a moment of boredom, hunger, weakness....ask yourself, is this really worth it, and will I work it off?

Mothers Day Classic!!

What a feeling, bein's believin' I can have it all, now I'm dancin' for my life. Take your passion, and make it happen, pictures come alive, you can dance right through your life.....

Imagine visions of flash dance racing through my head (either that or a beer commercial). Finally, I've accomplished that goal! Now to aim for bigger and better things! Actually, this morning was so great I think I'll stick to the little 'fun-run's for a while and work my way up to a 1/2 marathon (ehem). Next goal: Sydney city to surf!?

I must admit when I woke up this morning I fleetingly thought of staying in the warmth and comfort of my bed. Muscle Man and I had a rough nights sleep with little Bob being a touch unwell and waking more frequently then usual. Add to the equation I had a coffee at 9.30pm last night and even though it was a decaf it still had me bouncing off the walls until after midnight.

I have a little saying (actually I flogged it from a weight watchers meeting many moons ago):

If you fail to plan, you plan to fail!

I know it's a complete cliche, but for me personally this is very true. So last night as I was buzzing around on a 'fake' coffee high, I laid out my clothes, packed a watter bottle, grabbed supplies for the youngen's (oh and the Muscular one also) and recharged my iPod. Yes, I was set. Failure was not an option, until the alarm went off this morning. I am the absolute worst morning person. I am cranky, disoriented, lazy, scary looking, and generally quite irritable to say the least. Muscle Man often kisses me goodbye for work at his own risk, and knows it!

So at 6.45am this morning when the alarm starts blaring my first instinct is to pick it up and smash it against the wall as hard as I can, hoping it shatters on impact. I'd then proceed to pull the covers over my head and fall back to sleep. Then I realise I am dreaming. So, after hitting snooze for 20 minutes I decided I just HAD to get up. I groggily walked out to the kitchen, turned the coffee machine on (a REAL one this morning - although clearly they have similar affects on me) and whisked a piece of bread in the toaster. I felt excited and nervous and more than anything else pumped! Today was the day!

After a frazzled dash around the house to feed the kids, yell at Muscle Man to get moving (see, bad in the mornings), get dressed, grab the camera, debate chickening out...we were finally out the door! There was no turning back now. Not to mention what would I have written in my blog update today. It rained? See, accountability, it's a darn good thing in times of trial!

We arrived at the race venue and finally at 9.30am (we had been there since 8.30am) the pack started moving, carried by the momentum and inertia of the moment I set off feeling confident. I felt great and noted that despite my earlier, irrational fears I was as capable runner as anyone alongside me. I overtook numerous people, including a very fit girl from my High school (woohoo). The entire course I felt strong and steady. My pace was good, my stride was long. Heart rate was consistent and my legs felt like pistons beneath me. I was a machine (hahahahaha).

26 minutes later I crossed the finish line. Muscle Man was confident I was in the top 150 runners and out of a minimum 1,000 for my race I am absolutely stoked with this! Shall see when the results come out how I measure up though :)

All in all a fabulous Mothers day for me and another personal reminder of why I am a Fit and Fab Mamma ;o)

Happy Mothers Day to all you FAB Mums out there :)

At the start of the race - getting pumped

Can you spot me? Start of the race, this is only 1/3rd of the group

100 metres from the finish line (I'm beside the lady in pink - at the back)

The finish line

The end! On cloud nine!

New Years Resolutions

Yes, I realise it is May but what a perfect time to reassess and evaluate the goals so many of us made at the start of this year. As with every year, I find myself shocked at the speed by which this year is moving. Each new year year I lament that I can not believe how fast the year before went by. Every year is the same. Being almost half way through the year, it causes me to reflect on my own resolutions.

• Save more money (hmmmm, still trying on this one)
• Clean the house more often (dead set failing at this one)
• Try something new and adventurous (need to work on this one)
• Buy more dresses and figure flattering clothes (possibly why I am saving no money)
• Compete in a fun run or triathlon (more on this later)

Every year, there seems to be an awful lot of social pressure when it comes to new years resolutions. I imagine the top two resolutions would be to quit smoking and of course, lose weight. Companies affiliated with either would cash in on the hype of individuals determination that this will be their year! I've succumbed to the hype, and lined someones pockets many years.

It was January 2006 and in a surge of self confidence I picked up the phone and dialled Jenny Craig. I had used the JC program some years earlier when Muscle Man and I first began dating and I had ashamedly broken down in tears to him one day about my body image and lack of self-confidence. It hadn't helped that just prior to my putting on the waterworks, Muscle Man's bicep was blocking the sun, and my view In that moment I realised how fit and determined he was, and how reckless with my own health I was. Being the supportive guy he was, he paid for me to join Jenny Craig. I successfully lost 13 kgs during this time. However, within a few months of ceasing the program (didn't help that a dodgy ex flat-mate kept eating my JC food) I had re-gained the majority of the weight I had lost.

Well, this time, this year (2006) I was determined for Jenny to work. At the time Kirsty Ally was the spokeswomen and I was certain if she could achieve her goals with them, so could I.

I recall my first appointment so vividly. Armed with my best 'weight-gain' excuse; Jim, I climbed the 20 odd stairs leading up to the entrance. Breathless by the time I reached the door, I stood outside the centre and pretended to tie my shoe as I curled over trying to regain my breath. After a few minutes I walked inside. I was promptly ushered into a weigh in room where my mug-shot, oh sorry, I mean my "before" photo was taken and I was weighed.

Jim was just shy of 1 and yet sadly I was still wearing maternity clothes. I saw the before photo and cringed. I'd even attempted the token "I'm fat and sad" pose you see in every before weight loss photo. I did indeed look fat, and sad. It was exactly how I felt.

After the formalities I was introduced to my "consultant". She was tall, lean, fit and beautiful. Within the first 5 minutes she had provided me with her life story, ABN number, bra-size, and managed to divulge the fact she had never been "fat" in all her life and could eat whatever she wanted, any time. From that moment on, failure felt ingrained.

How could I possibly succeed if the person keeping me accountable had no understanding of the emotion associated with my weight. No idea of the daily struggle not to eat everything in sight and wallow in my own self-pity whilst drinking chocolate with a straw to prevent having to exert energy braking pieces in half! No, this simply would not do. I was absolutely doomed to fail. Again. As I left with my bags of plastic food, I decided a trip to the golden arches was in order. I needed to mull this one over with a hefty dose of lard.

I stuck it out for a few weeks, sabotaging my efforts daily and having no one I could turn to who understood. Eventually I decided to stop wasting money and throw in the towel again. I relented to Muscle Man that I was destined to remain a fatty and pass the cheese please. Another new years resolution down the drain.

This year I deliberately did not set a 'weight-loss' resolution. I no longer feel the need to. Every day when I wake up I resolve to make this a good day. To make smart choices, to move more. To make my energy in equal my energy out. No, this year I decided to make resolutions which set me outside my comfort zone (OK, weight loss did that too, but in a familiar been here before kinda way). Resolutions which challenge and push me to realise my own potential and self worth. One of my biggest ones was to compete in a triathlon or fun run. Something I previously could only aspire to. Something for fit and 'skinny' people.

Well, I am extremely proud, and excited to announce that tomorrow I am partaking in the Mothers Day Classic fun run. http://www.mothersdayclassic.com.au/ Muscle Man and I jogged the track today to get a feel for the route. We loaded Jim and Bob into our jogger and off we set. It was actually a beautiful track and an equally beautiful day. We completed the course in just under 28 minutes which ain't bad when sharing a child laden pram between the two.

I must admit I am feeling a mixture of excitement and nerves! Nervous that I might get stampeded by a crowd of women who can run faster than I! Nervous that I might appear fraudulent if my breathing is too laboured. Nervous that I will come in dead last (hmmm, wonder if there is a prize for that), and nervous that someone will take my photo and I'll be a heaving mass of rippling fat. Mostly though I have to admit I am excited! Excited that this year, 2008, I will finally succeed in at least one of my new years resolutions (now to master the house work! - nah, it can wait till next year ;o) ).

Power Snooze and Fartlek!

Power Snooze - OK, what brainiac coined this term? I don't know about you, but unless it's an all nighter, no 'nap' or 'snooze' makes me wake up feeling powerful, or sprightly. In fact, I wake up feeling very much like a Nanna (no offence). I need someone to come and spritz my face with cold water just to get me out of bed. Better yet hook an IV drip with coffee straight into my veins!

The reason I write this is that I have just woken up from an attempt at a so called power snooze! Jim and Bob were asleep so I thought I'd sneak in a 20 minute (who am I kidding, I wanted an hour at least) nap. No sooner had I begun dreaming of tonight's glass of wine I was rudely awoken by young Bob's squawking cry. Does anyone ever wake up from a 20 minute nap feeling better? I know I don't. It's for this reason I so often choose the guaranteed fatigue buster and get my backside hi-tailing it for a run. Even a weights session comes with a sure-fire burst of zest!

This morning Sexy Twin and I took the kidlets, and Sexy Twins's lovable canines, for a walk along the "ridge". We caught up on the daily goss, shared amusing anecdotes about our kids (I lamented I was ready to sell Jim on Ebay) and then inevitably our discussion turned to health and fitness.

Sexy Twin, like me, has a love for running. Hers began in the lead up to her wedding in an effort to shed her final post baby kilos. Like myself, she too found the adrenalin and strength one feels after running addictive. We jog together often, and in true twin form we can match each other stride for stride.

It has not always been the case though and both she and I will be the first to admit that in the initial stages of running we both had the grace of a hippopotamus doing ballet. An hour after my first decent run (20 minutes) my breathing was still laboured, and my face continued to resemble a beetroot. Like many things though practise makes perfect and the more I run, the easier it becomes. I even boast a healthy "sun kissed" glow these days after a run. Much better than being mistaken for Barney the Dinosaur, both in colour and physique.

When I first set about on my mission to battle the bulge, I stumbled across an amusing word in a weight loss magazine, fartlek. Honestly, this word is just ridiculous. The minute I see or say it, I feel like a 10yr old school girl getting the giggles at the word, fart! I think I am going to teach Jim to say it later so I can hear his gorgeous 3 yr old voice wrap it's way around such a funny word. The even funnier part is that the word "fart" means speed! Next time Muscle man lets one rip I'll have to ask how fast it was! 'Lek' for anyone who wants to know, means "play".

Fartlek, or as otherwise known (in the I'm not trying to be Guy Leach world), interval training, is where you increase and decrease your speeds as you progress for the duration of your run, or even walk. So for example on a typical treadmill run, I do the following:

• Warm up of 2 minutes at speed 6.5 km/pr hr incline of 2%
• 1 minute walk at speed 7.5 Km/pr hr
• 1 minute jog at speed 9
• 1 minute jog at speed 10
• 1 minute jog at speed 11

Repeat x's 6 and then warm down for 2 minutes at speed 6.5 again.

When I first began interval training I started at speeds ranging from 4km/pr hr through to 8.5.

Research has shown that interval training can help you burn 30% more fat than standard walking or running. You are encouraging your heart to work harder and constantly pushing yourself to be that little bit stronger. It's also a great way to measure fitness and see improvements in not only your fitness levels, but also your ability, both physical and mental.

You don't need to set about doing any sort of structured or forced intervals initially. Even just walking brisker between light posts (trees work too), or increasing the speed gradually on your treadmill each minute for 4 minutes (repeat 2-4 times to begin with and work your way up) are fantastic ways to get the heart pumping and the blood flowing.

So next time you are thinking of having a power snooze, how about a 20 minute fartlek session instead ;o)

Motivate Me!

Do you ever see those amusing Nicorette advertisements on TV and wish you had your own little cheer squad? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QEyqPISdEFc&feature=related OK, maybe not to help you quit smoking, but how about to motivate you to exercise, or to put the block of Camembert down and pick up the celery instead? I know I do! Sure, I wouldn't want them hanging around watching my butt ripple as I run, and sweat glistening off my forehead, taking lines of foundation with it, but I would love to have them suddenly appear just when I am talking myself out of my daily activity.

A catchy little jingle is all I'd need. "Alfie, Alfie, she's our girl, she CAN do it she's so swell" (OK, lame). I am sure I'd be up in an instant, sweat bands on, Ipod ready to go and motivation soaring (hmmm.....).

I had earlier today decided that I was going to have a self-imposed rest day. I've been jogging every day since Sunday and usually do have a few days off here and there. Muscle Man is away on business again so dealing with Jim and Bob (OK, just Jim. Bob is a 7 month old dream) alone is quite enough exercise, thank you. However, the one thing I do know all to well is that the feelings I get after a good workout session can be like a cure-all. I'm tired - I run - I'm awake. I'm angry - I lift weights - I'm happy. I feel like a walrus - I run - I feel lean. Simple. Or so you would think.

I often spend the hours leading up to exercise talking myself out of it. On my right shoulder I have my little "Go Alfie Go" motivational self, clad in a leotard and ready for a workout, Ala; Olivia Newton John Style. On the other shoulder I have my "No Alfie No" lazy self enticingly offering me a pina colada and a deck chair in the sun. It's a tough choice. Usually after several discussions between myself and I, I agree that to enjoy that pina colada I need to EARN that pina colada.

Last night was a particularly frustrating night where Jim was concerned. I'll save you most of the details, but to give you an indication of his cheeky, destructive, 'Dad's away' self, I'll give you the only detail which has any comic value to it. After being in his room for some time, fooling me into believing he was asleep, he pipes up "MUM, MUM!!!!". Expecting to enter his room to find him seeking a cuddle, or a procrastinating good night kiss, I was shocked to discover his room was trashed. Hurricane Jim had well and truly hit. Now, this is not actually unusual. He is his mothers son after all, so a little mess is expected. But, the alarming part of this event was the fact that upon closer inspection I notice that my little Jim has taken his night time nappy off and using his perfect little "I've been practising" boys aim, he had wee'd in one of his ugh boots!! Not a drop could be seen on the floor. Nope, it was all centred squarely in his shoe!

Needless to say today I was STILL exhausted. Whilst both Jim and Bob were having a nap (well, who can really say what Jim was doing now?!) I decided I would take the opportunity to do the same. Just as I was about to take my shoes off and call it an afternoon, I had a little voice pop into my head and remind me that the very best medicine for ME in situations like this is to slog it out on the treadmill.

I must say I am rather glad I did as whilst on my treadmill I noticed several examples of Jim's 3 year old behaviour I may not have otherwise handled so well. A discarded banana peel behind the rocking chair, an enormous clump of the cats hair from when he WWF'ed her this morning, crayon on our flat screen TV, and the most insulting of all, crayon on my treadmill! Yes, that is right, Jim had drawn all over the belt of my 'mill with green crayon. Every 5 seconds the little crayon cloud would slide past my feet.

One of the very MANY benefits of exercise however, is that as the endorphins begin to kick in, I look lovingly at the banana peel and appreciate the fact we can afford to eat, I look at the cat's hair and think how lovely they are friends (?!?!) and I look at the crayon and think that maybe one day I'll have a little Picasso on my hands :) Ahh exercise, it's my own personal LSD!

Time Poor

OK, let's be honest, many of us are pressed for time these days. Life is busy and despite often commenting that things will slow down soon enough, who am I kidding, they won't. They never do. There is always mouths to feed, babies to dress, nappies to change (boy will I be stoked when this part of my life ends), a house to clean (not that it is), people to meet, coffee to drink, and work to be done.

The business of life naturally makes it difficult to find time (or make time) for exercise. Realistically it's also the same reason we are so prone to grab takeaway for dinner or make a fleeting visit to a drive-through. I've been guilty of this many times. The easy option, or so it seems.

There was a point in time where I wished KFC had frequent driver points. I'd have earned a free meal every week. And of course, being as lazy as I was, unwrapping that burger and lifting it to my mouth counted as my daily exercise.

Before I had Jim and Bob, I was living the high DINK (double income, no kids) life. Friday night drinks with friends (OK, this still happens), weekend trips away with Muscle Man, dinners out, and take-away meals weekly. Basically all the signs of an expendable income and in my case, an expanding waist line also!

It was so easy to make excuses to avoid working up a sweat. "My make-up might run", "I could strain something", "I don't own gym clothes", "I have no co-ordination" and the most common excuse "I don't have time". Well I guess here's the news flash - You don't have time to NOT exercise. Cliche yes, but we really do only have one body and one life. I am positive that the majority of us want it to the best we can make it.

The Australian Heart Foundation has the following recommendation:

The Heart Foundation and other leading authorities recommend at least 30 minutes
of moderate-intensity physical activity on all or most days of the week. This can be accumulated in bouts of ten minutes or more if this is more convenient.
http://www.heartfoundation.org.au/healthy_living/physical_activity.htm

Now, even though it's not specified here, I would take that as INTENTIONAL exercise. Sadly this means thinking about it does not count. It also means walking to the mailbox (which in my case is 15 metres from my front door), walking to the fridge, changing the Chanel's on the TV, and tying your shoelaces does not count (if only).

No, you have to get up, get out, and get moving (Sheesh, all I need is pom poms and a mini skirt and I could be a cheerleader, Give me a G.....).

Beginning with those "Baby steps" http://fitandfabmamma.blogspot.com/2008/05/baby-steps.html is a great place to start. Park the car further from your destination and walk. Take the stairs rather than the lift, walk the kids to and from School. The physical benefits of working up a sweat (or the makings of one) truly are amazing.

Today I was feeling quite lethargic from Bob's incessant waking through the night (how dare he! OK, fair call he is only a baby), Jim's constant "Why Mum, Why Mum, But whys?" (BECAUSE SON). Oh OK, and from last night's Desperate Housewives tradition. So, when Jim and Bob were down for a sleep I decidedly thought I would have one too. Suddenly my own advice flashed before my eyes and I realised my exhaustion was really just another excuse to avoid increasing the heart rate.

45 minutes after this lovely self-reprimand I was off the treadmill, sweating profusely (hey, I jogged for 30 minutes) and feeling fabulous. Energy levels pepped (heck, I could even clean the house on these endorphins...**), satisfied and strong! GO ME!!

When you think about it rationally, we all use 30 minute segments in our day for things which in many cases could be compensated with something else, i.e. exercise. I know I do. Watching TV, surfing the net, writing this blog, chatting to sexy twin, deciding what clothes to wear, applying my makeup, straightening my hair, trying on the Slim N Lift Supreme. Yep, even despite having two young children I can unequivocally MAKE 30 minutes in my day to contribute to a healthier life. So, can you?

** I did not clean the house. Can someone point me in the direction of a blog, or similar, providing motivation for this?!