The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl

Tea, coffee and biscuits provided

A flyer whooshed through the door this week for the local Fitness & Friendship Club. Check out the bicep on this smiley face!

The F&F Club is basically fitness classes held in various community halls. But it's not all about sweating...

There are few phrases in this world that give more comfort and joy than TEA, COFFEE AND BISCUITS PROVIDED!

Alas there were no refreshments at Squad Training this morning. "Squad training" is what our coach calls convincing all us kickboxing dames to get up early on a Sunday* for three hours of torturous activity:

1. One hour of running
2. One hour of old-school exercises (cardio/strength mixed up in painful ways, stuff like squats to burpees to jack jumps, punches, evil push up variations, evil ab moves, etc etc etc)
3. One hour of sparring... pow!

Followed by collapsing into a pile of whine for as many hours as you please.

(It feels rather nice to be part of a squad, I have to say. We are getting team hoodies and everything. With our name printed on them!)

* UPDATE: Just to clarify in response to some emails, this is not something we do every Sunday! It's 3-4 times a year, tops! Most Sundays I am lounging around watching the MotoGP.

Instead of running outside, today we did an hour-long cardio machine circuit in the gym. I hate running, but cardio machines rank even higher on my CardioSucksOMeter. But this session was actually quite cool! We only had to do five minutes on each machine, so just when you were starting to foam at the mouth with rage, you could disembark and move to the next machine.

I need to do more cardio, so this might be something to adopt for the winter. Maybe a 30-45 minute circuit, some groovy tunes on the iPod... it would be over before you can say how the hell do you work this fecking stair machine. Of course I'd have to do it when the gym was quietish so my machine-hopping wouldn't be too annoying.

I can feel my body seizing up from today's efforts. Ow ow ow. But it was goooood... exercise has been helpful this week. Last week it was a messy, weeping my way through every class sort of affair. So onward and upward, dear pals.

Any cardio nerds out there curious about the circuit we did, I'll post it in the extended entry :)

Red Hot and Blue

I settled my debts at yoga! I was on time and wore correctly-fitting trousers, too. I apologised profusely for doing a runner last week and I think it's all cool now. I bought a six-class card to clearly establish that I'm not a crook.

Later on we were doing a twisty move and the teacher said kindly, "The other leg, Shauna" (I had left and right mixed up as usual). Then she said, "Wow, it's only your second week and I remember your name already! I'm normally rubbish with that."

"That's because she didn't pay," grinned one of the classmates. "You'll never forget her name!"

In other news, I scored my blue belt at kickboxing on Sunday!

I almost called in sick but that would have meant doing the grading another day, which would mean having to retain the moves in my brain for longer. Plus I wanted to progress with my Belt Buddies. We've been together since White... you can't break up that party!

It was ninety minutes of hell, comrades. Of course you should expect it to be harder the higher the grade but, man. It was hard to tell if it was the lingering cold or just the grueling-ness of the task. It was difficult staying upright at times; a punch would start out strong then wilt by the time it reached the target. The hardest part was concentrating on the instructions long enough to execute the moves. We finished with six one-minute rounds of sparring, a blur of thrashing arms and watery eyes.

Afterward we got our individual feedback from the coach. He was very kind and said I did well but I, rather knackered and delirious, kept interrupting with tearful rants. I coulda done better. I don't feel well. I can kick better than that. I'm always the dunce of the group. I HATE being the dunce of the group. Rah rah rah!

This illness has been much like the stage of drunkenness when your mouth takes off and way down in the background your brain is faintly pleading, BE COOL, MAN... but noooo, the mouth keeps going, so all you can do is listen to your own voice then cringe later on.

The fever is gone now but I feel high as a kite. It's a year since the first grading and I can't believe I've now got a blue belt. I love the whole kicking shebang so much. The people, the learning of new stuff, the general feeling of kick arse-ness. It's so addictive and empowering, even when you're Full of the Cold. I'm determined to work harder and more consistently and be fitter and stronger by the time we get round to Purple next year.

I've been recuperating since Sunday, belated doctor's orders. That is aside from the yoga class. We had to stare into a candle and meditate at the end. It was odd but lovely to let the mind go quiet and listen to the tumbleweeds up there.

Dry Your Eyes

The fever is giving me weird dreams. Last night I played tennis against World #2 Andy Murray. The court was made of dirt - not nice Roland Garros clay; more outback Australia dust. Andy was whipping my arse and I couldn't figure out why, until I looked down to see I was playing not with a tennis racquet but a TEASPOON.

"It's not fair," I whined, "How'm I supposed to beat you with a teaspoon?"

"That's the least of your worries!" said Andy Murray with great contempt, "DRY YER EYES!"

That's another brilliant phrase picked up in the UK. Try it next time someone is being a big moany wussypants. Summon as much disdain as possible as you sneer, "Ahh, dry your eyes!"

I went to the doctor today who said I might feel shit for another couple of weeks, which isn't handy with our kickboxing grading on Sunday. Might need to see if I can postpone. Anyway, at least it's definitely not swine flu!

Now back to bed. Bon weekend, comrades!

Under Construction

I'm starting a yoga class on Monday. Woohoo! I was Googling around and found one that slots in nicely in the wilderness hour between work and kickboxing. It's a short walk from work to yoga then enough time afterward for the short walk to kickboxing. Giddyup... such convenience and efficiency gives me a thrill. I normally spend that hour mucking around at home doing very little, so I may as well get bendy.

Also, I was sold by the sexy animated .gif on the yoga website:

If fashion is currently embracing the 1980s, then surely in Internet Years we are due for an animated gif revival?

Get Out Of Your Own Way

Recently our kickboxing coach went crazy with Microsoft Word and a laminator and made some Motivational Posters. I used to see bare studio walls as I huffed through the jack jumps and high knee jogging, but now there's a bounty of cheesy inspiration:

• Pain Is Just Failure Leaving The Body
• Over Prepare So You Don't Under Perform
• It's Always Too Soon To Quit
• Pressure Is A Challenge To Meet Rather Than A Threat of Defeat
• In Case Of Fire Our Evacuation Meeting Point Is Adjacent To The Bus Station.

This is the one that's plonked in my direct line of vision:

I get in my own way all the bloody time. I should have feet full of holes from all the times I've shot myself there. Some days it doesn't matter how much confidence someone has in my abilities, it's nigh impossible to believe it for myself. If you gave me one reason why I could do something I'd give you nine why I'd be rubbish.

Our coach deserves a knighthood for services to self esteem. The lassies on our team are a rich variety of ages, shapes, abilities and backgrounds. Whether you're a prize fighter or a galumphing amateur, he has utter faith in our ability to achieve. He quietly pushes us out of our comfort zones and sees no reason why we can't kick arse, literally and figuratively. I love observing the determined flush a well-time compliment can bring. You can see the posture straighten and the punches sharpen.

Personally there's been occasions when I've said "I can't do that move" and Mr Coach will say "Yeah you can!" so I do it, albeit clumsily. Then I see that the only real obstacle is my own mind - the insecurities and doubts and self-imposed limitations.

I talked about this stuff with a fellow foot-shooter and we reckoned that an important step towards getting out of your own way is to figure out why the hell you keep doing it in the first place. But it's still exhilarating to recognise when it happens, push the fears aside and go forth regardless. Even if it results in getting punched in the nose!

Green News

1. I passed my Green Belt grading at kickboxing yesterday! It was hell! Sweet, punchy hell. It hurts to type now. I managed to screw up the bits that I'd been feeling confident about, and do well at the things I was worried about, which meant it all evened out nicely. Woohoo!
   
   Somehow in the sparring I managed to kick my opponent with my big toe, despite the gigantic padded Mickey Mouse shoes. It bent back very painfully. I still suck at sparring, but otherwise I'm on a total high and amazed at the power of the human brain to learn stuff. A few weeks ago I was chucking tantrums trying to do a spin kick but I managed six in a row yesterday. If only I could apply my kickboxing dedication to other aspects of my life I would be unstoppable. Limping and quite ineffectual in a dark alley... but otherwise unstoppable.
     
2. In other Green developments, last week I made The Best Broccoli Of Your Life, an Ina Garten recipe as seen on the Amateur Gourmet. People are so free and easy with superlatives these days... how many volumes of those Greatest Rock Album In The World... EVER! albums did they bring out in the 90s? But this easy recipe truly awesomizes broccoli - oven roasted with garlic then lashed with lemon zest and juice and a wee bit of Parmesan. The original calls for lots of olive oil but I only used a dribble and accidentally forgot the basil and pine nuts but it was still brilliant. Even Gareth who has just three adjectives to describe anything in this world (Not Bad, Pretty Good or Alright) went cuckoo. I cooked almost two pounds of broccoli and we guzzled the lot of it. Oh it was lick-the-bowl good. Let me know if you try it! Come join the broccoli cult!
   
   Warning: I know I said in the last entry that there's no need to worry; that your digestive system adjusts to a vegetarian diet. However, if you have never consumed a pound of broccoli in a oner before, you can expect the only thing you'll give your partner on Valentine's Day is the Gift of Fragrance.

Hammered

Things that do not mix: jetlag, a mild fever and assembling Ikea furniture. It took me three hours to make Leksvik, a simple beside table. I put the drawer together upside down, twice. And I missed the mark when banging in those stupid little nails into the backing board thingo, so the inside of the shelves have spikes poking through like a medieval torture chamber. It will be a triumph if it doesn't collapse after three days.

"I hope this is entertaining for you," I grumbled to Gareth, who was sitting on the couch.

"Oh yes," he said, "It's always inspiring to watch someone struggle against the odds."

It's Business As Usual Monday - porridge for breakfast and kickboxing tonight. I just found out the next grading day is less than three weeks away. Eek! I desperately want to earn my Green belt so I can progress with my buddies, but I've only made it to one class since Christmas. Then again, if I swotted madly and got an A- for the Orange belt, how chronic would I have to be to actually fail the Green? If I can be cool, suppress the inner high school nerd and accept that the world won't collapse if I don't ace the test, I reckon I could swing a pass. So... not panicking yet. Calm blue ocean calm blue ocean!

Ginger Ninja

I pre-purchased my Post-Grading Bacon on Saturday morning.

"Didn't you do this before the Moonwalk too?" asked Gareth, "It's like you're a dog - you only get a treat for performing tricks."

Too true! The bacon before that was because I finally found a new job. The bacon before that bacon was because I'd turned in my book. But it's bloody amazing bacon and it must be treated with reverence. Except for Saturday when I was starving and turned the whole lot into a toasty bacon, tomato and avocado sandwich. Hubba hubba.

I was concerned that Grading Day would suck without a bacon-shaped carrot dangling in front of me, but I pulled through!

I broke out my sexy new Official Fancy Trousers. Many times my pals had asked, "Why do you not wear the Trousers?" and I said snootily, "Because I haven't earned them yet!" But as with the bacon I decided to seize the reward before I'd earned it and see if the universe fell apart. I only wish I'd bought them earlier - sure it looks like you're storing a picnic lunch in your crotch but the bagginess is makes for free and easy kickin'.

The grading felt different from previous sporty events. With the 5K and Moonwalk I could zone out and fall into a rhythm once I'd crossed the start line - the only thing to remember was put one foot in front of the other. The grading was more like high school exams - so much information crammed into your brain; wondering if you could get away with writing the answers on your arm.

To prevent freak-outs, I broke it all down into chunks: three different belts, six different sections for each belt, then sparring at the end. A total of 19 components. We weren't allowed to bring anything into the room with us except a bottle of water, so my spreadsheet had to be a mental one - I ticked off each chunk as we went through. Five chunks down, 14 to go! It was much easier to deal with that way. I calculated what percentage of the grading had been completed, percentage remaining; number of tasks cocked up versus tasks successfully executed. Etc etc etc!

I tell you what's irritating: when you're spewy with nerves and you can hear someone prattling, "I'm not nervous at all. I'm feeling quite relaxed and calm." Oh reeeeally now! In contrast, one of my mates was convinced she was going to screw up. My heart pinged because she'd worked so hard and there was no logical reason for her not to believe she'd kick arse. So I'd say after each panic, "You can do this dude! I've seen you do it a thousand times before."

Just saying those words out loud to someone else helped soothe my nerves. Throughout the four long hours of grading I'd mutter to myself, You have done this a thousand times before. You have done this a thousand times before. It pains me to admit that such cheesy self-talk bollocks was helpful.

Of course there were stuff-ups. The worst segment is like sight reading in piano exams - they yell out a random sequence of kicks or hand techniques and you've got to do them on the spot. ARRGH! It's so hard to stay focused and not totally forget the instruction. I always seemed to be kicking with the wrong leg and doing the wrong punch at the wrong time. It was hard not to feel demoralised for mucking up but I kept up the chatter: That's just one of 19, calm the hell doon!

I think Orange went the best - it was the hardest one, but by the time we got round to it we'd been going so long that the nerves had eased. For the first time ever I did the Orange set movement in a flowing fashion, without Rain Man-style mutterings!

The sparring turned out okay because I was mercifully grouped with my mates - we'd kicked each other plenty of times before so I didn't feel scared. Finally I was calm enough to think about the moves and actually throw some, instead of waiting for the blows to rain down. About bloody time.

Finally the grading was over! OVER!

All twelve kickboxing dames gathered wearily before our Great Leader, where he informed us that we had all passed.

Woohoo!
White belt!
Yellow belt!
ORANGE BELT, BABY!

And then our Leader actually shed a few wee tears, saying he was so proud of us and how much work we'd put in. Aww. It was a tender moment.

I didn't blub, for once in my overly emotional life. I was too busy feeling euphoric and relieved and stunned. And wishing I hadn't already eaten that bacon.

Judgement Day

Some people are born to perform and some people are just born. When I was 13 I entered the local eisteddfod, the annual music, dance and drama contest thingo. I was to play a song on the organ. I sat beside the Mothership, trying not to spew as I watched the adoring parents watching their virtuoso little shits.

Finally it was my turn. I walked out onto the stage, squinted in the spotlights, curtsied to the adjudicator, sat down at the keyboard, propped up my sheet music, splayed my fingers over the keys, then froze.

I don't know how long I sat there baking under the spotlights; I can't remember if I played a note. I just remember thinking, Nope. I stood up, scooped up the music and fled into the curtains.

I have a rich history of choking under pressure - public speaking, swimming races, own-goals and that time once again at the Eisteddfod where I had to recite a poem called Bullocky by Judith Wright and I strolled onto stage and said, "Bullocky... by Judith Wright " Then I froze and could not remember what came next. Bloody stinking Bullocky by Judith Wright. I still can't remember what comes next.

But the kickboxing grading tomorrow is going to be a different story! I have been telling myself this all week. The mind is so good at only recalling the SHIT TIMES but I know I have successfully done stuff in the past - recited poems beyond their title, collected shiny ribbons, savoured the smugness of victory.

We had our last practice at Wednesday night's class and I completely froze up during the sparring and almost burst into tears - but let's be positive! Let's say I was just getting all the crapness out of my system in advance, so I'll be entirely competent tomorrow.

Thanks to all you lovely martial artistes who wrote this week. You're so right in that this is a mental challenge more than anything. I'm going to try to block out everything else in the room, concentrate like mad, listen properly to the instructions instead of my churning guts.

This time tomorrow night I'll be on the couch watching the Indianapolis MotoGP and eating bacon and pass or fail, it will be DONE. Cannae wait.

Making the Grade

Next Sunday is Grading Day at kickboxing! I'll be performing tricks in an attempt to obtain coloured belts. Hiii-yah!

It's basically like piano exams with violence - there's the same angst and nerves and endless practice. I've done nothing but kick and punch and panic for the past two months. Okay, there was that one night last week where I just sat on my arse watching eight consecutive episodes of The Cook And The Chef and weeping for my homeland, but apart from that it's all kickboxing.

Amazingly I didn't sign up for grading because my friends were; I genuinely wanted to do it. I know I said I was taking a break from Big Goals after the Moonwalk, but I couldn't resist this one.

It's the first time they've done grading down at our fighting establishment so we're able to do some fast tracking - that is, attempt multiple grades on the same day, instead of one at a time with many months in between. Initially I was just going to do White and Yellow but our Great Leader said I should try Orange too. I said okay, but admittedly that was because my friends were.

It's been an intense couple of months. Holy learning curve, Batman. New kicks and punches, attack and defence combinations, competition techniques and set movements. Sure, the seven-year-old munchkins in the Kids class are doing the same belts as me but I'm old! I don't absorb information as easily. Many times my comrades have nailed the moves after the first instruction while I stand there gawking at the syllabus whining, "I don't even know what that means!"

But the training been a great kick up the pants, reminding me I do have some capacity for focus, patience and dedication. I made flash cards. I typed out the moves and stuck them on my cubicle wall. I have a copy in my handbag. I do mental run-throughs during meetings. I kick Gareth a lot. I even gave up my beloved MotoGP to practice for hours on Sunday. Gasp.

With nine days to go I'm not quite yet feeling competent, yet alone confident. I'm fairly okay with White and Yellow but Orange features the dreaded sparring. We're told the purpose is not to win, but to demonstrate your techniques.  So far I've only mastered the technique of covering head with hands while begging for mercy.

The thing I'm really crapping my pants about are the set movements - this is where you do a whole bunch of moves in a sequence. The moves themselves are learn-able, but on Grading Day we have to do them individually, with the rest of the class watching!

I hate people watch me do stuff. I could never be into dogging, for example. That's just too much pressure to perform.

We went through set movements at the end of my very first Advanced class. Then our Great Leader said, "Okay now we're going to do it one at a time. Volunteers?"

I hid in the corner, fighting nausea as my mind played a montage called 'Botched Music Recitals Of Your Childhood'. I did not want those Fighter Dames in the fancy blue pants watching me wobble through my moves. I prayed I'd be spared since it was my first class, but no.

Needless to say I completely arsed it up and wanted to diieeee.

"I heard you had to do your sets in front of the class," one of the gym lassies said to me a few days later. "Good on you! I could never do that."

"Cheers!"

"I heard you were totally nervous and white as a ghost and shaking all the way through!"

"Oh really now! Yes. Well. Somebody's got to be the class clown, so it might as well be me!"

I was going to write about this much earlier, as I normally do with sporty ventures. But I've been so convinced I'm doomed to fail that I thought I'd keep it quiet, so you'd never have to know!

However I know that getting angsty thoughts out of the head and onto paper helps me calm down and start getting practical. So here I am with just nine days to go. Nine days to get my Left and Right sorted. Nine days to learn how to tune out the crowds and the voice in my head that whispers, you're going to arse this up!

Deep breath... deep breath... ahhhh.

Float like a lead balloon, sting like a flea

Things have gone up a gear at kickboxing, for the most pathetic reasons.

I was perfectly happy in my rut at the Monday beginners class with my trusty partner V. She was petite and light on her feet while I lumbered and failed to distinguish left from right. But we made a good pair - always urging the other to hit harder and kick higher; both in love with the faux violence.

Then V said she fancied adding in the Wednesday night Intermediate class, did I want to come? Her pal M was going to start too. Alas, I was in the midst of Moonwalk training and didn't have enough legs to fit it in.

That was my first twinge of panic. What's wrong with our cosy wee beginners class? Why would you want to join the scary class with the scary chicks with the fancy team trousers?  And you've found someone else to go with too? Am I not enough for you?!

It tore me up inside, knowing V was learning new moves without me. But I played it cool. Sorta. I joined the Wednesday class as soon as my Moonwalk wounds had healed.

But then! Then she had to go and buy the fancy trousers! The bright blue team dacks with the white stripe up the sides. Once you get the trousers, you mean business.

And then! V said she wanted to get into sparring. That's when you start thumping actual people. Now I know some of you lovelies out there are proper martial arty types who do proper fighting, so please don't laugh at me. It took me six years to graduate from punching the air at Body Combat class to punching a focus pad, so I wasn't planning on punching people for at least seventeen more.

V was placing a big order at our favourite online martial arts shoppe and asked did I want anything? I ordered the protective puffy hat, the shin guards, the gum shield and the padded shoe thingos with no intention of using them. But if V and M were ordering sparring gear then I had to at least create the illusion of interest so I wouldn't be written off altogether.

People ask me all the time, "How do you stay motivated?" Well, you can spur yourself on by sticking an unbecoming photo on your fridge or training for a charity event... but don't underestimate less noble motivations, such as:

• jealousy
• fear of abandonment
• desire to not look like a sissy in front of your friends

They fire me up just fine and dandy.

It may sound negative on the surface, but they compliment the other side of my personality: the lazy, complacent underachiever. Sometimes it doesn't occur to that I could be pushing myself harder until I see someone else pushing themselves harder and then, frothing with envy, decide that perhaps it's time to up the ante.

So in addition to the Wednesday night class, last week I graduated to the Monday Advanced class, again because V and M were doing it. It was so intense I almost spewed all over the mirrors and that was just the warm-up. I've never felt so incompetent in my life. I'm paranoid that I shouldn't be there and the proper fighter chicks want me dead.

But I kept up. I need to remember that I was hopeless when I started the beginners class too, and hopeless when I started Body Combat in 2001. Baby steps, etc etc.

I've also had a wee sparring session. To psyche myself up I put on all my gear - puffy hat and gloves and gum shield (we call them mouthguards in Australia) - and asked Gareth to hit me.

Honestly, the tiny tap to my well-padded noggin was about as powerful as a mosquito's fart but I shrieked, "You're a prick! I'm calling the police!"

It is hard to describe the gut-wrenching alarm of seeing a punch coming at you for the first time. You spend your life avoiding that kind of thing, so it's unsettling and unnatural to deliberately seek it out. I had a big sook, ripped off all my gear and vowed to eBay the lot.

But a few days later I rocked up to the class to try it for real, not wanting my pals to think I'd gone soft. I had to ask V to tie on my padded shoes for me because I was panicking too much to figure it out.

Finally, ready to rumble. V and I touched gloves. Immediately every technique fell out of my brain. Kick? Punch? What? Where? How?

I could not connect my brain with my arms and legs at all. Instead I muttered, "Shit! Shit! Shit a brick!" and turned into a human punch bag.

Just when I thought I couldn't possibly be more shit, I had to swap to one of the experienced chicks. I was so intimidated, despite her being so polite and only using 2% of her actual fighting power. She was literally instructing me how to attack her, but my legs and arms just froze up and said, WE GOT NOTHIN!

At the end of the session I had to spar with our instructor. Arrgh! Honestly, you've never met a bloke so encouraging. He has built up a safe, friendly atmosphere and a great team who are so supportive of each other - even clods like me. He shuffled round saying,  "Just go for it! Don't be polite!" But I felt so bloody uncoordinated and embarrassed and wanted to go home and eat toast. He wouldn't let me give up though. Eventually I managed to loosen up and connect a few moves, thanks to him pretty much standing there and telling me exactly what to do.

Oh yes. Champion in the making.

But still, at least I had a go. There is a perverse satisfaction in doing something that scares you. I thought the biggest fear would be the Flying Fists and Feet but I was too busy being consumed by the Fear of Looking Like A Dickhead. When it comes to physical activity my mantra has always been, to butcher a phrase: It is better to stand still and be thought a fool than to move around and remove all doubt.

So this is uncomfortable ground but I am going to keep trying. I was overdue a change in routine and I know that many things great things in life start out feeling awkward. Better to be filled with dread and nausea as you explore new frontiers than languish in a rut. Besides, I gotta at least pretend to keep up with my mates for awhile before I go waving a white flag.

Bubble and Squeak

Tonight I went to my pal V's house to practice kickboxing in her back yard. When she called up with the invitation I automatically said, I caaaan't. But then I remembered - no Moonwalking, no DIY... I'm free! I'm freeeeee! I dropped to my knees, Tim Robbins in Shawshank style.

We were joined by fellow kickboxing fiend H, and the three of us literally kicked each others arses in the fading light while Max the Dog growled at nothing in particular.

The love affair with kickboxing grows hotter every day. I'm clobbering people in my dreams. I've added in another class too, more advanced and full of intimidating fighter chicks. But it's like what Gareth says to me when I don't want to order in restaurants because I worry they won't understand my accent, "It's good for your development!"

. . .

Things that don't make much sense

#1 - How I can persuade myself to go for walks lasting up to eight consecutive hours, yet at the end of every working day I struggle to walk eight seconds to the kitchen to wash my revolting coffee mug.

#2 - How I have a website with my weight posted on it and a book with my weight written in it, yet I run away screaming when invited to a WiiFit Gathering because I don't want everyone seeing my BMI.

. . .

Dudes, we have CARPET! After bare chipboard for nine months, every step now feels like we're bouncing on the moon. It's added a pleasant dimension to the 100 PushUps Challenge; it smells fantastic when I collapse to the deck. Only downside is I have to re-learn how to be cautious with wine and beetroot.

We also have a COUCH! Although I kind of miss the fold-up camping chairs, the way they make you stink like an Arbroath Smokie.

. . .

I also unpacked the new scanner that we've had for three months, which means I've finally scanned my List of Dinners as some folks kindly requested. You'll see it's a total dog's breakfast but it's purely designed to jog my memory when doing the weekly meal planning, because I always forget what the options are.

Note: "Dr. G Soup" is a recipe that Gareth devised. I haven't chopped him up and turned him into soup.

. . .

Rhiannon and I were in the queue at H&M yesterday when a girl came over and asked politely, "Are you Shauna Reid?"

I tell you what, my heart hammered ninety to the dozen. Have I stolen something by mistake? Have I parked illegally? But I don't even have a car!

Then she said, "I read your blog!" My face burned and words deserted me and I think I might have said something really stupid. But I did manage ask the lovely lass her name. It was Sarah and she said she has a blog too.

HELLO Sarah, if you're out there! Thank you for saying hi! I'm sorry for being a gibbering fool. I was just a wee bit embarrassed because I knew when you came over I had truly slovenly posture and a surly I Am So Over This Shopping Trip expression. If I'd been more organised I would have been doing bicep curls with those 6-pack socks they always have at the checkouts, to be more inspirational blogger-like!

D'oh

I thought today would be fabulous because of my new shoes that only cost TWO POUNDS. That's cheap in any currency! Then I spent ages writing a very helpful post to answer all the vegetarian questions I've been getting but then I clicked the wrong thing and next thing I know my near-finished draft is GONE and my bare bones scribbles were published. My apologies to the folks reading via feed reader! Arrrrgh.

People have also asked why my Twitter page doesn't work. I've logged a help desk ticket but until then, you can still find me by searching for Dietgirl on the Twitter homepage.

Your most grumpy servant,
DG

Update: I got whacked in the face at kickboxing tonight and I think it was just what I needed. Feeling much chirpier now! Endorphins rule :)

Update 2: Here are my dinky £2 shoes!

Wheels On Fire

How are you all 100 Pushups people going? I confess I only got round to starting this past Sunday. So far, so shaky! But what a novelty to have a challenge that takes 15 minutes instead of your entire bloody day. It's so quick that it's not even worth making excuses not to do it. Last night I did my pushups at midnight in Lancashire in a sad hotel room. My train had got in late as one of the engines CAUGHT FIRE... but I pressed on despite my brush with death*. How's that for commitment!?

Comeback #457

Back in the saddle today! It's been three weeks of sickness and sloth and sloppy eating, with no exercise except the blowing of the nose. I hit the wall in York yesterday as I stared down into the remains of a tasty pub lunch of steak pie with mash and veg. My belly burbled, Why are you feeding me all this pastry? And all these animals? Why haven't you been taking me for walks?

I have long accepted that there will always be times when I lose it for awhile - circumstances conspiring to disrupt the routine... or me just eating too bloody much. But it is weird, even in the actual moment of overdoing, I don't seem to feel the old shame and panic anymore, nor the urge to carry on scoffing into oblivion. It's more like, Righto. I'll enjoy this here pie now and get on with the porridge and kickboxing as soon as.

But lordy it sucks getting back into the routine. How many million times have I been here? I had a nice healthy salad sandwich for lunch and stocked the desktop pantry with oatcakes and apples and bananas and oranges and peanut butter but I just wanted to bellow, BORRRRRRRING! like Homer Simpson. Then I arrived at the gym for kickboxing after a shitty day to discover I'd left my trainers at home. Nothing like that spluttering rage that comes from doing something stupid that can be blamed on noone but you. I stomped back downstairs and said to the receptionist, "I left my shoes at home! Can't do the class! What a shame eh?" Then my friend Vicky arrived and pointed out I still had time to trot home and get my shoes and only miss ten minutes. "OH ALRIGHT THEN," I said. Foiled!

But I'm glad I fetched them, even if I arrived back in time for a fitness test. Apparently they do this every six months. This annoyed me because we had a CHART to fill in and lack of exercise has left me weak and totally not PRIMED for the event... so my chart wouldn't be as good as it could be! I got all competitive and pathetic and even stole glances at other peoples charts in order to become even more competitive and pathetic. It was all, how many quivering push ups can you do in a minute (bugger all), how many axe kicks (57 left leg, 60 right), how many backhanded fist punch thingoes before you swear your arm is going to fall out of it's socket (170-something), how many lunges (barely 20! stupid knee!), how many straight punches... I can't remember but surely it was HEAPS!?

I take the mouth-frothing desire to improve these statistics as a sign that I am on the comeback trail, despite still not being able to hear properly. Woohoo!

. . .

First law of blogging: Never blog after midnight. Second law of blogging: Never blog while upset. I did both at 1AM today in spectacular fashion. SCORE!

Then after much tossing and turning I woke at 5AM feeling like a twit. So I deleted the entry, forgetting that all the people subscribed to the site via the RSS feed had already seen it. Derr! Sorry you guys had to witness such raw panic in motion.

The gist of the entry was: I received an email from someone who was extremely angry that I hadn't responded to their email of three weeks ago. My tiny mind made the short leap from one angry person to the possibility of whole armies of angry persons - due to the current backlog of emails - and all of them thinking I was a heartless evil sell-out. Thus I spewed out the 1AM Entry o' Turmoil!

Important lessons have been learned here. One, You just cannae please everyone.

Two, there's only so many hours a day. Day job, family, friends, book stuff, bathing, kicking things - these must also be dealt with and I've been trying like a bastard to keep up with it all. I get such really hilarious, heartfelt and/or heartbreaking emails and want to break out the Scotch Finger biscuits and blether with you all, but I need to be realistic about what can physically be done each day.

Three, my contact page needed a tweak. For a long time I've had a disclaimer that responses can be slow due to my o'erflowing inbox, but because of the current volume the disclaimer needed to be strengthened.

Cheers m'dears and hope your Monday is/was a goodun.

Goals Goals Goals 2008

Righto. 2008 Goals! It's been a little weird this year because losing weight is no longer the mission. So where do we go from here?

Considerations

1. I am done bloody done with obsessing about weight, eating and exercise.
   HOWEVER...
2. My flesh really needs to stay within the confines of my clothes, due to the financial/social implications of bursting out of them.
   AND...
3. Given my long and colourful relationship with food, a certain watchfulness is required!

Because it never ends. There's never a moment when you lunge across the finish line and get a medal and a marching band plays a jaunty tune. But hopefully staying in my jeans won't have to be a dull and dirty task. I struggled in the latter half of 2007 when life got ultra-stressful, but I'm slowly getting it together again. For the first time in living memory I got through Christmas without gaining weight. It was odd but pleasant to start the new year without the usual bloated panic.

So my goals this year revolve around exercise. When I do the exercise, I feel happy in my skin. If I feel happy in my skin, I don't feel the desperate need to get lost in the biscuit tin. The goals incorporate a few things that really float my boat:

1. Cardio with Pals - cardio basically bores the shit out of me so involving friends makes it a social appointment instead of a chore
   
2. Physical and Mental Challenge - I feel wracked with Calvinist guilt if I rest on my laurels. I have to push on to new frontiers, especially frontiers that fill me with fear and dread... otherwise a piano will fall on my head for being idle and complacent!
   
3. Structure and Purpose - I've never felt so healthy and positive as during my 5K training back in 2005. I liked the schedule, the challenge, the inching towards a goal. I ate healthily because it made me run better, not because I was freaking over the scales. I want that feeling back again!

So my exercise goals are:

1. Keep on kickboxing - social and violent, how can you go wrong? I am determined to nail the spin kick without feeling the need to vomit.
   
2. Lift weights twice a week - CONSISTENCY, dammit! I was so stop-start last year that my overall strength didn't increase much. This year shall be different!
   
3. Stretchy stuff once a week - in previous years I always vowed to do it twice or more but it never happened. Time to be realistic. So one yoga or pilates DVD or a class if feeling adventurous.

And the big ones... fun fun fun...

4. Train for and complete the Edinburgh Moonwalk - a marathon-distance charity walk in June. Basically you start at midnight and pace 26.2 miles through the streets of Edinburgh in your bra (and shorts or trousers, naturally). Over ten thousand lassies doing it all for cancer research! We've got a wee team happening at work and I am dead excited - time for a new challenge. It will be long and tough but I will geek out with the training schedule!
    
5. Do the Sea to Sea cycle route - this is a popular 140 mile jaunt right across the north of England -- from Whitehaven on the Cumbrian coast to Tynemouth on the North Sea coast. Dr G did it last year and had a grand ol time, despite the big bad hill in the middle. I stupidly agreed to give it a crack in 2008. To be honest, I'm not sure about it at all. It's a truly laughable idea right now. I'll have some really bloody serious work to do, given my current Absolute Beginner status; the fear of going down hills and inability to pedal up them. Let alone cycling for a few days in a row. Hmmm. We're planning our trip for early September. Hmm hmm hmm. But it's ON THE LIST and out there baby, so I'll give it a red hot go!

Death of a Malteser

Today someone typed in the search box: danger in eating mars bar choc.

How dangerous could it be? According to this Chowhound debate, you can it eat after the expiry date if you store it well. One time in the days of yore I was so gagging for a choccie fix that I ate an expired block of Home Brand cooking chocolate. I don't think it would matter if you ate it fresh from the factory or seventeen years later, it still would have been vile.

What makes me sad is when you see a squashed Mars Bar lying on the ground, dropped by some careless fool. No matter how much of a chocolate snob I become, it still upsets me to see chocolate on a footpath, squashed by shoes or covered in vomit; never fulfilling its destiny. One time I saw some Maltesers, trampled and dissolving in the rain. It was just such a tragic waste.

Abandoned ice cream cones in the summertime, they make my heart sink too.

. . .

I'm in a world of pain today - a severe case of Fighter's Back! I was punching like a madwoman at kickboxing on Monday night and three days later my back and shoulders are still aflame.

Like most things in life, you get what you put in with kickboxing. Remember that ill-advised Advanced class I took recently? My punches were pathetic and my kicks wouldn't have harmed a flea - all due to terror and feelings of inferiority. I like to think I'm completely comfy in my skin these days, but I went all body-conscious when faced with those svelte assassins. Instead of trying to impress with my skills I held back – worried that they'd see my upper arms wobbling if I punched too hard, fretting that my t-shirt was exposing belly during burpees.

But back in my comfy Beginners group, I unleashed my inner Rocky. Not Rocky at his Apollo Creed-clobbering peak, mind you. More like Rocky before the montage with the carcasses: doughy but determined. I disappeared into this zone of intense concentration, it was just my fists and the glowing red target of the focus pads. Pow pow pow! I didn't give a shit if anything was jiggling. Sometimes I forget that most basic law of the gym: everyone is there for themselves. Exercise is a deliciously selfish pursuit. So forget about the flab and let fly.

Minty Fresh

Hello groovers. Did you enjoy your festivities? Are you throwing rocks at your telly at all those Slim Fast commercials?

You know those dreams where you go to school in your pyjamas? That happened to me tonight fer real except it was at kickboxing. That's what you get for packing your gym bag in the dark. Luckily it was only PJ bottoms, navy blue. But they were too tight and the navy blue t-shirt I'd packed was too short so I looked like a navy blue Tellytubby.

It was a mixed ability class tonight, due to a revised Christmas schedule. And whaddya know, I was the sole representative from the Beginners group. All the rest were Advanced, in their matching official Team Scary satin trousers that they wear when they officially clobber people for trophies.

I nearly ran out the door but I'd paid my 3 quid and didn't want them to think I was a wimp. Because I'm sure they wouldn't have figured that out from the way I wobbled with fear and cocked up every move. The indignity of it all. I don't mind looking stupid in the beginners class, in fact I quite enjoy it. But in front of those feisty scrapping machines was something else altogether. Confidence is entirely contextual, you see; it's no fun when you can't share around the ineptitude!

. . .

It's good to be back in the saddle after Christmas. It was a low key couple of days, and I frolicked in the strange and delicious sensation of not being stressed about whether I was eating too much and if my world would collapse if I ate a dozen After Eight mints. World still seems to be intact and breath is minty fresh!

Gareth the Wholesome went cycling on Christmas Day. Christmas Eve, too. Rhiannon and I sat on the couch a lot, chatting and making plans and setting goals for fancy new exercise regimes and schedules but the closest we got to actual exercise was walking to the shops to buy pedometers then giving up when we saw the queues, so we went back home and resumed our perch.

. . .

Have any of you Scavenger Hunt winners received the goods yet? I sent the Mothership a copy of DG on Friday (December 21), and would you believe she got it yesterday? Five days to Australia, with Christmas and everything!

Mary, my Mothership-in-law, phoned tonight to say she's about 100 pages in. My guts are churning thinking of all the upcoming swear words and the boom-chicka-wow-wow bits involving her son. Why did this not occur to me before? That people might read it and not just shove it on the shelf between a crumbly pair of Agatha Christies?

Also, many of my kindly work colleagues have copies. So instead of being That Chick That Swears At Her Computer, I will soon be... That Chick Of Whom We Know Far Too Much Information.

But it's exciting, comrades! I had the first official sighting on December 23, nine days early at our local WH Smith. Then yesterday I saw a dude unpacking copies at Waterstones in Edinburgh, and Rhiannon and I jumped up and down discreetly.

Here it is at WH Smith, snuggled up next to Gordon Ramsay. Woohoo!

Scrag Fighter

I’m in loooooooove with the kickboxing. It’s all I can think about lately. And it’s only Friday today, why must Monday be so far away? That’s when I’ll wake up smiling, knowing there’sonly ten hours til I can kick and punch once more.

It usually takes me ages to get in the mood for exercise; I start out praying for power failures, earthquakes or similar catastrophes so I can go home. But at kickboxing class I’m hyper right away, smashing my glove into my fist with gleeful anticipation. The delirium lasts the whole hour, even when we do six kinds of push ups and torturous abdominal exercises. When I’m waiting my turn to mock-clobber somebody, I bounce on the spot impatiently. I look at the clock and ache to slow down time, so it never has to end. Afterwards, I go home and corner Gareth in the kitchen, then slap him around a bit to show him what I’ve learned.

All that said, I’m pretty rubbish at it. I have trouble interpreting instructions, even when the dude demonstrates the moves. We tried spin kicks last week, and I couldn’t grasp the concept AT ALL. Instead of one simple swivel-then-kick, I wheeled around and around like a discus thrower, not knowing when to let go.

There’s an advanced class after our wee beginner’s one, and those chicks look pretty hardcore. They’ve won proper medals and everything. I don’t really fancy getting that serious, but I’m determined to reach a higher level of bumbling incompetence. So please Santa, bring me a punching bag for Christmas!!)

I don’t know why I'm so hooked; I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly aggressive person. Perhaps, subconsciously, I yearned to be a playground scrag fighter and now I’m fulfilling my destiny. Maybe I can persuade the instructor to hold a class on a football field at the local high school. Someone will yell out “SCRAG FIGHT!”, then a big cloud of students will descend, forming a circle around me and a scrawny opponent. Fight fight fight! I’ll draw some tattoos on my arm with a pen; maybe paint my fingernails with Tippex, so I look extra tough.

(I don’t know what you call fighting chicks in your part of the world, but where I come from they were known as Scrag Fighters, which is just a delicious pair of words don’t you think.)

I was gushing about kickboxing to my friend Gillian at the pub the other night and she said how important it is to find the exercise that really floats your boat (she the QUEEN of cycling), then it doesn’t feel like such a chore. It does take a lot of trial and error – some activities are brief and heated flings (running), some become solid and trustworthy (weight training), some you tolerate even though they can bug the shit out of you (hillwalking) and then there’s the ones that make you feel like a silly teenager drowning in hormones. But persist, persist, persist, there’s something out there for everyone!

. . .

Thanks for your kind tolerance of the public panic attack in the last entry. Of course I felt sheepish the minute I hit “Publish”, but I never get to that point unless I do the crazy writing first!

Stayed tuned next week when I shall be announcing a Highly Exciting Contest which contains PRIZES that might happen to be 397 pages in length. Woohoo!

Dear Me

Kickboxing kicked butt last night. I could roundhouse til the cows come home! I looked in the mirrors as someone was clobbering me and realised with alarm that my right thigh (saddlebag, more like) is wider than the left. Gareth verified this later on, and he's a cool and calculating engineer-type so it's not body dysmophia on my part. I guess that's the legacy of 2.5 years of knee injury. Ha!

But the knee is doing pretty well. I still have to modify moves - jump kicks are impossible and knee push-ups still hurt, so I do step kicks and one-knee push ups! It also behaved at Spinning on Saturday. For the first time in so very long, the jumping-out-of-the-saddle bits didn't hurt. The instructor was bloody brilliant - there were only three of us in the class so there was nowhere to hide and she reduced me to a beetrooty pulp. I think it might have been RPM actually, I recognised some of the songs from my old gym. Whatever it was, it was bloody hard work and a smug start to Saturday!

. . .

The Postcard from New York arrived the other day and I'm bewildered by my nauseating cheerfulness. What was in the air over there? I must have been high on bagels.

Click here to have a gander!

But still, during this crazy busy wacky week its a very soothing thing to read. I think I will send myself reminder postcards more often. Buy toothpaste. Don't forget to go to work. Be more brave. Get to bed earlier.

What would you write to you, today?