Tuesday, 3 January 2017

Fancy pants...

So yesterday was Day One of the 'How little food can I exist on so that I don't die?' diet.  It started well, with a bowl of lovely fresh fruit and yoghurt, but went steadily downhill after that, peaking around five o'clock yesterday with a last piece of Christmas cake, three cookies and several roasted chestnuts.  But there was no alcohol which I suppose is a blessing.  If only saying 'no thank you' were enough to make the weight drop off...

As you get older, this continual declining of tasty stuff needs to be accompanied with some kind of brutal agony (some would call it 'exercise').  I have never been one for the gym, finding it to be a place of torture, which stretches as far as the changing rooms with their transparent shower cubicles, and lockers at floor level (use your imagination if your stomach is robust enough).  I have used gyms over the years, but I know from son number two that they are not like they were twenty years ago. 

Apparently people actually go in there to sweat and work out now, rather than hanging limply off an exercise bike chatting to a friend who would be slumped over a cross trainer - both of you swinging a lukewarm bottle of water and a hand towel to wipe the machines off when you've finished.  I used to sit on my towel when I used the exercise bike as it helped with the lacerations to the derriere section, and there was never wiping down needed of any equipment (unless I dropped my water bottles after some over zealous swinging).

But I do appreciate that I need to do something to accompany my diet if the food deprivation is going to have any effect on my waistline.  After a lot of thought, and some persuasion from a lovely friend, Mrs H, I have signed up for a free Pilates class.  Now I have been to a Pilates class before, so it won't be a complete shock as to what is expected of me.  The first class I went to also happened to be the last class as I couldn't cope with the frequent flatulence outbursts from several of the older ladies.  It wasn't that I was embarrassed, more that I kept getting told off for laughing hysterically every time one of them erupted. 

Apparently, Pilates etiquette demands that you ignore any unexpected noises, so I will need to keep my trap shut.  The trouble is, that twenty years down the line, I am now one of those 'older ladies', so my trap may not be the only thing I need to keep shut...

On a lighter note, I bought new knickers over the Christmas holiday from M&S.  New drawers are one of life's simple luxuries, and I pulled a pair out to put on yesterday morning.  Imagine my shock when I saw the size of them.  If a stiff wind had got behind them, I could have abseiled to Reading quite successfully.  In fact, they were so big that there was very little flesh on show between the waistband and my bra, and for a brief moment in the full length mirror (I shan't do that again in a hurry)  I was taken back to Les Dawson's Roly Polies, in particular, The Mighty Atom. 

This will teach me to read the big pants' small print....


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