day 1, again

In the most roundabout way, I came to the realisation on the weekend that I ought to do something about my weight.

About three months ago, P was gifted a Westfield voucher, to spend at any store in a Westfield mall.  At about the same time, he closed down an old credit card and used the last of his points to redeem a voucher.  He picked a Bendon voucher for me to spend on frivolous underwear, something which we'd both enjoy.  It was hosing down with rain on Sunday and the first voucher was nearly at the expiry date, so we decided to brave the mall.

I've written before that my boobs are not petite, or even mediumish.  I am fairly tall and have a long torso, so I can carry some chest weight and I certainly do.  I hated my boobs in my younger years because going braless (or even strapless bra'd) is not possible for me.  I've learned to like them more as time has passed (familarity, I suppose, which in this case has not bred contempt but rather resignation and acceptance).  I hemmed and hawed at Bendon over the bra selection, which was not extensive for those with a reasonably small band size but large cups.  I eventually picked out a lovely one, but as I was assessing the fit in the mirror, the damage I've been doing to my midsection over the past couple of years was brutally apparent.  We don't have a full length mirror at home, so I've only been looking at it from my own perspective, recently.  I shrugged it off - fluorescent lighting always makes you look horrific, I thought. 

Finished with the bra selection, we wandered to the electronics store to spend the other voucher.  P eventually settled on Apple TV.  We also bought an SD card converter thingee to get all our photographs from the camera to the iPad (P recently got one for work).  I got antsy with all the people in the store and in the mall, so we scarpered for home.

Back at the Lavender Loveshack, P asked me to model my new knickers and I felt oddly reluctant.  I shrugged him off.  He set up the Apple TV instead, then downloaded a whole lot of photographs from the camera.  Showing me how great the Apple TV is, he set up a slideshow of reasonably old photographs I haven't really seen before on our TV. 

I freaked.  Internally, I was berating myself that the photographs, none of which are particularly recent, were horrific.  In my eyes, I was huge.  I asked P to turn it off, snappily.  He asked why.  I wouldn't speak about it and he got cross.

I got up, and went for a run. 

I downloaded food tracking apps and started a plank a day challenge. 

I'm not going to be stupid about this.  I'm running a 10k in November anyway with my sister (not that far, but she's on the mend from surgery on her ACL), so training is necessary.  I could stand to cut back on the booze and treats.  I'm not obese; I have a healthy BMI presently, for what that's worth (albeit at the high end of the range).  I know that it is not realistic nor even desirable to expect that I'll lose over 10 kilograms.  Five kilos would, however, make a world of difference to my own self-image. 

By the by, P apologised for upsetting me.  He thinks I get stupid about my self-image which might well be true but he recognised that what's required is compassion, not ire.  In turn, I apologised for behaving petulantly. 

I could be setting myself up for failure by writing about this at the outset, but processing it, writing it, makes me accountable, I hope. 

easy, tiger

Today’s inspiration is brought to you NYMag, usually an indefatigable purveyor of snark: an article in a womens' issues column about the sexlessness of lifestyle blogs.

I don’t count this as a lifestyle blog, but Lauren Sandler refers to “the blogosphere” more generally, saying it “…is about intimacy, not international market share; memoir, not magnates.”  To the extent my blog is about memoir (who enjoys reading my old posts better than me, in a sadistic sort of a way – oops, accidental sex reference!),  then I guess Lauren’s extrapolations apply to this blog too. 

She’s right, in that we’re becoming obsessed with curating a gorgeous life that is perceived as desirable by others.  She’s right to quote the statistics about women and sexual dysfunction.  But I have trouble imagining that these things are linked; other than that they are activities engaged in (or omitted) by women.  I think it’s wrong to generalise that women are enjoying shopping for sheets more than what goes on between the sheets for a number of reasons.

Tahi.  I’m not convinced women enjoy shopping for sheets.  They enjoy having nice sheets for aesthetic as well as sensual reasons.  Well, that might be just me, but don’t worry, plenty more blatant generalisations ahoy.

Rua.  Many blogs – lifestyle or otherwise – pick a particular focus and sex may not be even on the periphery of that focus.  As far as memoir goes, there is often a nod to sex (in fact, I would venture to suggest that hinting that you have a wild, romantic, regular and satisfying sex life is part of the image that many bloggers seek to portray, striking envy in the hearts of many.  Much easier to do with hints and pictures of your bearded lover than with a blow by blow or even a generic discussion).

Toru.  Many bloggers have privacy concerns (should my blog mix with my family/friends or my work/colleagues?), and discussing more neutral matters on their blog is part of an image protection scheme should the different spheres merge.  Also, there are usually two people involved in a sexual act – privacy extends further than for the blogger her or himself. 

Maybe this just stems out of the problematic definitions of the word “lifestyle”, which Lauren notes was once a crap-mag euphemism for sex? 

I thought about inserting a HOTTTTT XXXX RACY assertion/dissertation about my sex life here.  It is an important dialogue for women to have, no doubt.  But P would kill me.  And clearly, I’m too bound up in the New Prudism. 

By the way, did I tell you I have a new set of sheets? 

home ownership seems like a rort

Most weekends, I’ve been picking up the Property Press and pawing over pages of real estate in desirable neighbourhoods.  It’s the most hopeless “research” ever:

1. I don't have a decent deposit together yet (see: Big Trip of 2012).
2. Nothing in the Press is priced anyway.
3. Everything in the Press is likely over a million dollars.
4. See (1) again.

The Property Press is more like far-fetched real estate porn.  I could NEVER afford that sort of tool-based reno carry-on!  Oh LOOK baby, it’s got wooden JOINERY, ooo la la!  Don’t you just want to run your fingers gently over the 100% wool carpeting?  The his’n’hers bathroom sinks get me all STEAMED (except they don’t!  I’ve never understood the ‘one bathroom, two sinks’ phenomenon.  Just one more sink to wipe crusty toothpaste off and get remnants of either whiskers or foundation all over).  I could get so Fifty Shades of Linoleum all up in here.  I think I’m a frustrated BDSM and power tools writer, or somesuch. 

It’s actually pretty frustrating.  I mean, there’s absolutely no assistance to price a bedsit in Manurewa, work out the RRP of a mostly derelict villa in Westmere or drop your jaw at the cost of a Remuera mansion.  CV is a joke here – if it’s even mentioned in the ad, which is rare, you’re looking at a large increase on that in the sale value. 

But, being me, I am always looking for the Next Big Thing.*  Previously, it was the Big Trip and move back to the Mothership, Aotearoa.  Prior to that, the wedding.  Prior to that, it was the move to London.  New York.  Career.  Etc.  It’s not that I’m in a hurry to work my way through “the steps”, it’s more that I like to have a project to look forward to but am horrendously impatient (sometimes I meet people who I swear are on a treadmill of “because that’s what’s next” and I worry that’s me, too).  We had vaguely decided that we should be working our way towards home ownership once we arrived back in NZ, amongst other things because I multitask like a mofo, of course.  So you can imagine my extreme disappointment when we hadn’t bought and renovated the exact house I want in the exact location I’d like within three weeks.  REASONABLE, no?  But with some gentle cajoling from P (“what the f is wrong with you?”), I have backed away from my turgid dreams of Having It All Right Here, Right Now.  I am learning to accept that it makes sense for us to scrape at least 20% together and look for something in a more expensive bracket (thereby requiring more time and saving). 

A friend of mine has recently purchased a home of her own and she’s scared the bejeebers out of me too, what with the scary-auction stories, people bidding well over CV and using dirty open home tactics to discourage other buyers.   Mind you, I can kind of see myself being awful and aggressive awfulness at an auction.  Side eye, huffy sniffs, waving of the auction baton thingo.  Yep, could totally buy into that behaviour, sadly. 

But it doesn’t stop my home ownership dreams totally.  At 5am when my lovely neighbour flushes the loo and runs the shower that I can hear as clear as day from my bed I’m still thinking that home ownership is the holy grail. 

 

*I would love love love a dog or a cat too as a Next Big Thing.  There’s nothing officially stopping me now, I guess (apart from the Body Corp rules), but I’ve made a promise that until I can give a pet the lifestyle they deserve, I can’t commit.  Lifestyle includes a decent backyard if P and I continue working long hours.  So I guess home ownership/pet motherhood go hand-in-hand-ish.  Would you look at that, somehow I'm more serious about getting a pet than I am about keeping a husband properly.  PRIORITIES. 

exercise or eating: guess which

More European bucket list-y travel this weekend - P and I hit Paris to support friends running the marathon/use their marathon as an excuse for excessive indulgence.

Let me just say I heart Paris in an achy, breaky kind of way.  However, I'm sorta glad I don't live there because all I swear that all I achieved this weekend was eating and drinking.  I ate a baguette on the sideline of the marathon to quell a hangover, for fuck's sake.  This was at about the 35k marker; I'm sure all those poor participants were grateful to see my fat ass munching on a french stick just at the point where they realised that there were still 7ks to go.  Honest to goodness, I ate and drank my bodyweight this weekend and I feel so queasy at work this morning that I think I finally believe in karma.

Also, my friends DOMINATED THE RACE.  One of the girls, in her first ever marathon, came home in 3 hours 47 minutes, which if you ask me is freaking outstanding.  Another ran the entire race on a bung foot and bung knee and still finished in 4 hours 15!  I'm so proud, you have no idea.  I'm not sure I could personally ever handle a marathon (Lumpy Knee does not love the running and frankly, neither do I), but as I watched the stream of runners getting closer to the end of the race, the sense of achievement and pride you could see on faces, albeit mixed with grimaces of pain and suffering, was just lovely and I was a tad jealous.  But then I went back to the baguette and gnawed away my feelings.    

OK BACK TO FOOD.  FOOD FOOD FOOD.  BOOZE BOOZE BOOZE. 

Highlight of Friday was the best chocolate mousse I have ever eaten.  We got in late off the Eurostar, so P and I dropped our bags at the hotel and wandered down to a neighbourhood joint.  We hadn't researched or booked anywhere; we just walked in off the street.  A very nice main was followed by the proffering of the dessert chalkboard and the assurance from Monsieur the proprietor that he had "the best chocolate mousse in Paris".  We laughed; he looked marginally offended and told us to check the internet.  HOLY CRACK PUDDING, that stuff was unbelievable.  DIVINE.  It came in a giant bowl from which you served yourself.  The man was brave to let me at it with a serving spoon…I almost licked the bowl once we were done. 

Saturday's highlight - Aux Deux Amis. Go there.  Just do it.  We were a party of six who ate almost the entire menu, which was composed entirely of specials.  Completely irresistable, fresh and delicious, as were the four bottles of wine we demolished and the aperitifs.  The entire bill came out at something like 35 euros per person, which is fantastic value for money.  Not a particularly fancy place, but it had wonderful atmosphere and was packed to the rafters.  We commenced at 8.30 and rolled out at 1ish, laughing and sated.  It was so lovely to see some of my Masters' classmates, some of whom are now living in Paris.  Two Paraguayans, an Australian, a Belgian and we two Kiwis had lots to share - telling filthy stories about translation difficulties a particular highlight of my night.  Lowlight: falling down the stairs in the Metropolitain, chest first into the railing, jamming my necklace with pointy bits into my decolletage...shameful AND hurty.  At least I have the excuse of ankle booties with five inch heels, but TYPICAL nonetheless.

GORGEOUS BUT LETHAL.  POINTY BITS STABBED STRAIGHT INTO THE BONY BITS OF MY CHEST.  SHUDDUP, I DO HAVE SOME BONY BITS ON MY CHEST.  ABOVE THE SQUISHY BITS.
PRETTY THOUGH, NO?  MAH LADIEEEZ GAVE IT TO ME AS MY SOMETHING NEW BEFORE THE WEDDING.  TASTE, THEY HAZ IT. 

Sunday - it took some celebratory champagne with the runners after the race to get me back on the level.   I am STILL nauseous today after drinking my way home on the Eurostar last night.  Shouldn't complain though - really, I am still blissfully happy after a lovely weekend. 

medication and more about underwear

I stopped in at the pharmacy on the way to work this morning.  I purchased all the essentials: wax, condoms, birth control pills, UTI drugs and hayfever tablets.  Doesn't that make me sound like a feral hussy with a drippy nose? 

Actually, I'm just a feral hussy; the hayfever tablets were for my sister.  P and I depart for the Southern Hemisphere on Sunday, so I recently received an email from K asking me to stock up on hayfever meds as they're cheaper here. 

I have not yet checked customs regs through the States and NZ yet so I'm hoping that travelling through with 7 different packets comprised of 4 different flavours of meds isn't going to make me look like some kind of low grade lackey in an amateur drug operation.  I'm sure a strip search isn't quite as exciting as it sounds…plz to tell me if it is. 

Sister K formerly lived just outside London but found her job there a bit restrictive ("They made me wear shoes") so she migrated back to the greater Auckland metropolis at the end of 2009.  She does miss some aspects of British life though ("the awesome ready meals at Marks & Sparks" for example WHAT AN EFFING HIGHLIGHT).

K also misses the fine range of underwear here in the UK.  I'm inclined to agree.  As fantastic as the Bendon seconds shop at the Auckland airport is, it's got nothing on the UK department stores.  This weekend, I went in to John Lewis to get officially fitted for a bra. 

That's right, I decided that these puppies should be properly slung.  It's not that I have been letting them roam free, but I've had a bit of a love/hate relationship with my bras, in that while I like having a good one, my boobage has difficulty with the bras I like (i.e. ones made of frilly bits in pretty colours).  Jeebers H., 3rd person boobs, sorry about that. 

I now have the overshoulderboulderholders to RULE THEM ALL.  They dropped me about 3 band sizes which blew my mind, and my ribcage is having to get used to the boa constrictor elastic that these badboys are reliant on.  Dropping band sizes means an increase in cup size for those of you who are undergarment-challenged…so now it sounds like I have extreme norks. 

VIA CLUSTERFLOCK.  JANE RUSSELL: EXCELLENT CANS.  NEW BOOBROLE MODEL

You can learn a lot about your boobs by having some bird bend you over to drop them in about 17 different pieces of nylon and elastane.  For instance, I learnt that when it comes to looking good under a t-shirt, I have no shame in parading marginally see through underwear for two different women whose names I don't even know and announcing "wow, these boys are ROUNDER than I thought" (they agreed).    

I also learnt that having strangers see my boobs causes me less concern than having strangers see my muffin top.  Weird.