Princess of the World

Dear Thinnies.

Things I want you to tell me:

I have a fantastic bottle of 2002 Shiraz that I am much to thin and hungry to appreciate, shall I bring you a glass or would you prefer a straw?

Things I do not want to hear from you:

Oh god, I absolutely must make it to the gym soon. Sara, you’re so diligent! Good on you, god, I just absolutely have to get back there, get cracking and just do it. You know? I’m just so busy. You know? Fantastic. Good on you. Fantastic.

Fuck you.

So you’re thin and you don’t work out? Great. I’ll be sure to sucker punch your genetically gifted mom next time we meet. Furthermore?  You are thin already. I will consider it a personal affront if you decide to start going to the gym.  In fact if you are so inspired by me going to the gym that you get your bony yet contoured ass back there, I reserve the right to stab you in the face repeatedly so you have to move to the basement of an opera house and take organ lessons from your grandma.

If all you thinnies start getting your ass to the gym,you”ll become even thinner and thusly it will become a never ending circle of YOU BEING THINNER THAN ME.  It will keep spinning out of control until you are basically a ghost and I am the BIG FAT GHOST NEXT TO YOU. Selfish much?

So go on, just eat the pie and relax. Hey, LOST is probably on, chill out. You deserve it.

Quite frankly my friends, this should be all you need to know about Bulgaria. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2LTLEVC-sfQ

Today I learned something that NO-ONE SHOULD EVER HAVE TO KNOW ABOUT BULGARIA. I don’t mean to be racist, but fuck those guys… http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RZlodHgCipk (Also, I look a lot like him when I work out, a little more Britney on the iPod but pretty much the same thing.)

To give you some background, my absent trainer in this gym expedition is our pal Simon. I worked with him last year for a couple of months, as sort of barter for him living on our couch periodically over the last few years. He is a hideous horrible tyrant (picture below) and I hate his guts.

Simon has selfishly moved to South Korea to teach Simonglish (English with a personal touch). If all South Koreans that you meet from now on say ‘Amazing’ or ‘Wang’ at the end of every sentence, he is the reason. In his absence he’s set me a workout that will last four months, and then will send more via the intermanet. The routine is a body’s worth of weight training (12 exercises, 4 sets, 15 reps done in groups of 3) one day and then cardio the next.

Today was day 4 of be a supermodel, thusly it was weight day 2. I got up at 6 so I could have my latte and make my lunch and toddled off to the gym (surely my 15 minute amble to the gym is worth 100 grams of brie???)

I spend the first half hour wondering if anyone is looking at my double ass (where my knickers cut so firmly into the middle of my butt cheek that there are several tiers of cascading ass). I spent the next 15 minutes trying to simply stand on one leg and put a leg up on the bench behind me then when that didn’t work I rolled around on my tummy on a big red ball shouting ‘BACK EXTENSION! BACK EXTENSION!’ in lieu of whatever the fuck a back extension is supposed to be when you’re rolling around the gym on a stupid red ball.

I then had a little stretch, plucked my knickers from tier 3 back up to tier 2 of my ass and went and had a shower.

How hard can this work out thing be? I’ll be a supermodel by Thursday GUARANTEED.

I have many hobbies. I’m not good at tiresome things such as practicing or, like, actual participation though so most of these hobbies are strewn through my life like Canadian Tire money. Activities that have dotted my 29 years include swimming, tennis, juggling, stilt walking, magic, hockey, soccer, decoupage, pottery, papier mache, poetry, knitting (FUCKING DISASTER by the way), paper making, “sewing”, ukulele, saxophone, violin, singing lessons (see knitting), ceramic painting, jewellery making and so on.

So needless to say when it comes to having to do something for the REST OF MY LIFE, I struggle pretty hard to not tell that something to just. fuck. off.

For example, say, ah, say exercise?

I hate it. It’s hard and I hate it. It’s boring and I hate it. It’s stupid and I hate it. However, the consequence of this is fatness. Great, white fatness. I know I’m not the fattest ever (that role is provided by this little munchkin) but I’m no supermodel, let’s be honest. Well, I suppose I am kind of a supermodel, about three of them, all strapped together and lumpy.

I have a gym membership, that’s not the problem. I nearly always have a gym membership, I just don’t go. It’s boring, I told you, why don’t you listen?

With my work schedule what it is however, I’m not sure I can commit to a team sport that actually relies on me to show up (if only to fulfill gender requirements). Also, running and leaping and understanding the offside rule in front of other people sounds totally mortifying. So the gym it is!

But the gym sucks ass. It’s filled with anorexic marketing managers with highlights, 19 year old students in sweat pants that say something cute and endearing like ‘junk slut’ and men the size of stegosaurus with teeny tiny little pin heads.

Here is what I decided though… I don’t want to turn 40 and realize that I’ve spent the last decade feeling past my prime, unattractive and undesirable. I want my husband to keep thinking I’m gorgeous as my boobs continue their Long March to my knees. But I don’t JUST want my husband to think I’m hot, I want 22 year olds in black rimmed glasses and cardigans with Hugo Boss features to think I’m worth a shot. I want to get up at 3.30am to go to work, work my 10, 16, 20 hour shift and come home exhausted but okay and ready to do it again tomorrow. I want to be fit, I want to be able to run for my life if I need to. I want the 12 year old event management graduates with shitty French manicures to be intimidated because I’m not just fantastic at my job, I look GREAT. All of it, I want all of it.

I turn 29 this year. I’m young enough, I’m not moaning about that. I just don’t feel so great about myself. I don’t like my body anymore, and that’s a pretty big part of me (insert own joke here, I can’t do EVERYTHING for you). So I’m back to the gym. I’ve been going on and off for years, but I much prefer the months off due to busy-ness than the actual going bit, so I’m worried I’ll lose 5lbs in a few weeks and quit again til September.

As I lurched my fat ass down the treadmill yesterday, arms trailing behind me like useless tentacles, eyes bugging out and sweat spouting from my face like a geyser, I thought of something that might help me stick at it.

Public humiliation.

So internet. That’s where you come in. I’m updating my blog. I’m going to write about the hideousness that is the gym and the process of inching closer and closer to being a supermodel. Or ballerina. I haven’t decided yet.

I’ll try to update often. I’ll try to keep it funny. Read it, don’t (it’ll take a day or so to get the ol’ blogsies up and running, but I’ll let you know). But maybe those of you who do read it can help out when it really gets hard. Say hi. Say LOL or some other vaguely unfortunate acronym. Or not, I don’t mind. I just thought it might help keep me going, knowing that something entertaining at least was coming out of it.

But either way, here we go… wish me luck!

So, in mid 2004 Graeme turned to me in the middle of the night and said “WILL. YOU. SHUT. UP?”

That was the start of an epic adventure I would like to call ‘I = Crazy’.

As a child I sleep walked occasionally, but nothing that caused any real alarm, perfectly common. I periodically ground my teeth down to dust, but who doesn’t right? I would sometimes wake up with raw skin where I’d scratched and scratched at myself until I bled. But, you know, right?

The resurgence started with teeth grinding and scratching. Some nights I considered wearing gloves to bed but I get so freakin’ hot anyway, I think I might have melted into a puddle of red hair dye and residual carcinogens. After some time of constant teeth gnashing, it sort of went away, or Graeme just lost the will to live – who could say?

The next stage was back in Australia, visiting my mum in Adelaide. I think it started with me trying to hurl myself against a wall repeatedly whilst shrieking in terror. I thought it might be stress from being back in Adelaide, maybe allergies to the stupid dog? (Note, I like dogs but this dog is stupid, it’s not me, it’s him).

But when we got back to Melbourne I proceeded to the next stage of mental, the one that’s stayed with me ever since. It is the sit bolt upright and say stupid things stage…

The first time? BOLT UPRIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT announcing to the world…

“Good heavens! We appear to be running low on chutney!”

And so it went on. (Insert Benny Hill music here). Bolt! “GRAAAEME. Would you give me the music please? God, for the CHOIR of course. (Mutter mutter mutter)’. Sleep.

Graeme awakes to me patting the bed covers around him. “What are you doing?” Me: “I am just looking to see if my mother was still with us”.

There was a brief period of violence where I punched Graeme in the face and one night he awoke to me gripping his scalp like a basketball and squeezing with all my might. I am proud to say it took both of his hands to pry my hand off.

Most of the time though, it’s just me sitting up and staring at the (imaginary) man in the corner of my room, the robber outside the window or the spiders running over the walls, not wanting to make a noise so they don’t notice me. I’ll get out of bed an hour after I’ve gone to bed, thinking it’s time to get up and I’ll have to stare at my clock for literally a minute to see why the numbers are wrong.

Anyway. The long and the short of it is, because I’m having fantastical conversations all the time, sitting up, moving around, or just screaming at Graeme to “look at the hilaaaaaaarious balloons” in the ceiling, I’m tired a lot. Add to that mix a job that periodically requires 5am starts, 15 hour days and a lot of fucking idiots and I figured maybe I should do something about it. I have barely slept this week for any time at all. I sort of sleep, but a tissue dropping in Latvia will wake me up and I’ll spaz out (and those Latvians are a sickly bunch). I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in forever (thusly, nor has Graeme) so a couple of months ago, I talked to my GP, who referred me onwards and upwards.

Cut to bed time on the 10th of December…

http://www.flickr.com/photos/buntonpeel/3098751981/in/photostream/ (more photos in the stream too!)

I get the results next Tuesday morning. Apparently they have a 95% success rate in being able to identify key issues, despite the unnatural setting. Maybe they can fix me. Maybe I’ll get some proper sleep. Maybe I’ll suddenly start enjoying hiking and being really positive about things saying “hey! no problem buddy, that was a really good try!” and “no worries, let’s go at your pace”.

Maybe.

Cross your fingers for me, I’m ready for a good night’s sleep.