The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl

Don't Stop Moving

One of my favourite blogs this year has been Jen's Perfect In Our Imperfections. Sometimes you get lucky and find someone on the other side of the world who seems to be working through the same issues as you and is articulating thoughts you didn't even know you were thinking. In this case, it's been the JOY of maintenance. I enjoyed her take on That Oprah Article today:

"The thing that we both forgot, that most of us don't realize, is that we can't just grab onto the new set of circumstances and hold on for dear life. We have to keep moving forward, keep letting go, keep rolling with new circumstances. That's why weight maintenance is so hard, I think. It's easier to take risks to move toward a big exciting goal and an imagined better life. It's harder to keep living in the present when you realize it's not just one big shining moment where you feel great all the time. You can't 'conquer this battle once and for all,' you can just keep living and working through your new stuff."

. . .

Hope you had a Merry Christmas, if you're Christmasly inclined! If not, hope your December 25th was generally ace.

Headbanger

My friends' little 18-month-old seems to be going through a phase of whacking his forehead against various surfaces... tables, people, bookshelves. He just totters up and thrashes away like he's at a heavy metal concert. Quite often the surface is unforgiving and it all ends in tears. Then two minutes later he's back for another go. Whack whack whack. Same result.

That is how this weight maintenance malarkey feels to me: bashing my head against the same brick walls, over and over again; seeing how it feels and testing my limits, before eventually concluding, Actually, bloody hell... THAT HURTS.

I mentioned a month ago there's a little corner shop near our new place. It has taken me almost that long to be able to go inside said shop without feeling the need to buy Something Nice every single time. I kept dropping in for a pint of milk or a newspaper and winding up in front of the sweets display, flushed with the thrill of having goodies so conveniently close to my place of dwelling and feeling compelled to take advantage of it. A Twix here, a Freddo Frog or two there.

I've been fighting this stupid compulsion all my life. I've written before about growing up on a farm where the food was ultra healthy and the nearest shop was a twenty minute drive. Every second spent away from there - Chez Grandparents, friend's houses, in line at the school canteen with a fifty cent coin burning in my palm - was a precious, desperate Opportunity To Eat The Good Stuff. Of course it got worse when I moved to a big town for university - endless shops and possibilities with no supervision.

Over the years l've slowly learned the obvious lesson that there is always going to be shops with delicious things in them... the supply is not going to dry up. The problem is I keep forgetting that lesson. I keep needing refresher courses. 

Last Wednesday night I went out for loo paper. The best value was KittenSoft, pictured here with the docile beast on the packet. I tried to interpret his expression as I joined the checkout queue. Yes, I am soft and fluffy, but must you wipe your butt on me?

The queue was conveniently located next to sweets display, so the familiar flutter kicked in. OMG! Chocolate at 20 paces! What do I want what do I want?

But this time, unlike the last bazillion visits, I stopped. Just like when my wee friend tested his noggin' on the washing machine, the novelty suddenly wore off. 

Hang on. I even don't want a chocolate. Sure the wrappers are shiny but the contents are not that thrilling. Also, I'm not stranded on a farm anymore. The shop will still be here tomorrow. So there's no need to stock up like the world is about to end.

But WHY do I have to experience the "thrill" of a dozen Freddo Frog expeditions before I remember this? And also remember that tight jeans feel unpleasant? That I don't actually like Freddo Frogs?

There's nothing wrong with eating chocolate. It's just the crazy brand of eating chocolate that gets on my goat. Just when I think I've figured it out, that I can have a calm and considered relationship with food, I falter. Like when the Christmas goodies flooded the office last week, I went all Free Food cuckoo and had to five different Quality Streets before remembering they're stinkin' and I've never liked them.

Well, no profound conclusions here, comrades. Just the endless frustrations of a slow learner.

Comments for a Cause

In the spirit of the holiday season, blogger extraordinaire MizFit is donating ten cents for every comment she receives on her latest entry to Safeplace, a local domestic violence shelter. She's already up to 356 comments, so soon she'll be crawling round the floor of her car and lifting up the sofa cushions trying to find more change. Why not drop on over and leave a comment? It won't cost you a dime, but it will cost her :)

Dinners with Gingers

Meanwhile back in New York, it was time for another dinner with a blogger. Well, it was time three months ago when this actually happened. Our appointment on that breezy September evening was with Beck of Not A Fat Opera Singer. 

Beck is the Queen of Planning. We had been emailing for weeks beforehand, trying to decide where to meet. Or more accurately, where to eat. She had suggestions for every borough and every cuisine, and it all sounded good. In the end I suggested we go somewhere that was special to her, so I could get a good stickybeak into the Life of Beck.

I was a little nervous as Dr G and I headed to Union Square for our rendezvous. I'd never met an opera singer before, let alone a redheaded opera singer. How do you talk to an opera singer? Would she greet us in song?

She chose a traditional "hello" instead, and was not wearing a horned helmet. She was also tiny, thus destroying the last of my opera singer stereotypes. The three of us jumped on the subway and chatted merrily all the way to Bayridge, Brooklyn, one of Beck's old neighbourhoods. 

Our first stop was a wee Italian bakery where Beck purchased some of these crazy tri-colour cookies that she'd been telling me about, for our dessert later on. This was my first American Bakery Experience. I was amazed that you can buy items by the pound. So instead of saying, "Two cookies please. No! Three. I mean, ten!", you have say you want half a pound or whatnot. Then they put the goods in a little white box and tie it with red string! That charmed my pants right off.

That weigh-and-pay system would take some getting used to. So much mathematics involved! You'd have to decide if a particular cake looked dense or fudgy, and was that frosting whipped or heavy? How substantial are those chocolate chips? Etcetera, etcetera. 

Twas The Night Before Christmas Party

Time for the Annual Christmas Party Eve Clothes Shopping Rant! 

I was going to wear the same skanky purple Going Out Top I've worn for all occasions this past year but it's so grandmotherly and sensible I thought I'd hunt down something groovier. Admittedly hitting the shops the night before the party was a crap strategy; all the ho ho ho and jingle jangling in the shopping centre made me cranky after ten minutes and I soon gave up.

This year's gripe: why the bloody hell why are they putting elastic on the bottom of Going Out Tops?

I thought I'd hit the jackpot with a slinky gold number. I pulled it over my head and felt a rush of hope as it draped over my sturdy shoulders, hugged the boobs and flattered the belly. But then it went quite literally pear-shaped because the top kept on going, all the way to mid-thigh, engulfing my butt... then finished with an elasticated hem. It strangled my thighs like a lasso, making the top billow out between boob and thigh so I resembled a shimmering, arseless Christmas bauble.

Why would I want a lasso round my thighs? I know where my thighs are!

. . .

A lovely former colleague visited us today along with her five-month-old twin girls. I held one for two minutes and didn't break it.

"Are you sniffing her head?" Linda asked.

"Yes! It smells like babies."

"What did you think it would smell like? Coffee?"

For the first time in my life I felt a very faint twinge that babies might not be the most revolting idea in the world. Very very faint, mind you.

I raised the possibility with Gareth this evening.

"Nah," he said. "Too much work."

"But we could raise them under a fascist regime like The Mothership did. It would be the total opposite of too much work. Teach them to do dishes and weed gardens as soon as they can lift their own heads. You'll never do chores again!"

"You can't do fascist regimes with kids these days! They just get resentful and steal all your money then stab you in your sleep."

. . .

Hello to anyone who found their way here from People magazine! Just to explain in case you came looking for super duper speedy weight loss tips, there was a wee typo in their review of the Dietgirl book - the lard-busting took around 333 weeks, not 33. Hehe.

Livin On A Prayer

Note: Comments are behaving strangely at the moment. If you ignore the weird text and just type your comment and press Post, it is received but the page won't reload like normal. I'm investigating and hope to sort soon!

"Today's class will feature no less than three Bon Jovi songs," our Body Pump instructor gleefully announced this afternoon.

Oh hell yes! Way to turn around my bitcharse disposition in one sentence. You cannae beat a bit of the Bon. The tunes turned out to be a really dodgy techno remix of Living On A Prayer and two inferior newer songs, but it did the trick. I don't know where I'd be without exercise to elevate my mood. In jail, probably.

I had a Bon Jovi Flashback in the middle of the Tricep track and nearly dropped the bar on my nose from laughing. The day before my last high school exam, me and three good mates went to Sydney to see Bon Jovi in concert. My first concert ever! Unless you count that Elton John tribute guy who played at the local greyhound track when I was ten.

When you lived in a far-flung rural town the only way for kids to get to concerts in the Big City was by charter bus. It took about five hours, excluding vomit stops. Since this was 1995 there was only a cassette player on the bus and the self-appointed Overlords of the Cassette would sidle up to the driver and bat their eyelashes until he put their tapes on. It always fascinated me how on a bus full of strangers a clear hierachy of popularity would establish itself within the first fifty kilometres. Anyway, we were approaching the outskirts of Sydney; so close to Bon Jovi we could smell the acid wash, when a rather tired and dull blast of guitar dribbled forth over the speakers.

"What the hell is this shit?" I snorted to my friend Jenny.

There was an outraged intake of breath and one of the Cassette Chicks spun around in her seat, fixing  her kohl-rimmed eyes on me in what we call back home a Death Stare.

"This shit," she hissed, "Is Bon Jovi's latest album!"

Oh. Well. It was shit.

Anyway that has bugger all to do with anything, doesn't it? I have an almighty backlog of posts but had pangs of self-consciousness every time I sat down to write. It's been odd trying to get back into the groove after my Internet Exile. It's like I had amnesia and stumbled across my belongings like a stranger... I write about my blubber? On the internet? Why would you do that? Why would anyone read that?

And then I watched some really depressing documentaries about wars and poverty and felt guilty for writing about trying not to eat things for almost eight years.

More soon, comrades! :)

Now you're back from outer space

My exile is over! It was less than three weeks but that must be about eleven Internet Years. A brief summary of goings-on:

• Green Belt - Training has begun for our next kickboxing grades. I'm again wrestling with my inferiority complex as my friend V nailed the 75 elements of the set movement in one bloody class while I'm still struggling with the first sequence. But Grading Day is not til February. My brilliance tends to lie dormant for a few months until you flush out of hiding with a big stick and a bucket of panic.
• Operation Tightarse - After a year of idle whinging about my tight hamstrings and glutes I decided to do something about it and dusted off all my stretchy DVDs. I'm hoping the regular yoga, pilates, etc will help my flexibility, with the main aim of kicking better. Note: this Pilates DVD is gold.
• Soup of the Year! If you want a marshmallow-free way of consuming sweet potatoes, may I recommend this Sweet Potato Soup Topped with Sautéed Halloumi and Mixed Seeds. It's a real hearty mother of a soup. Since the recipe is from a poncy supermarket it specifies own brand ingredients like frozen sweet potatoes and Five Seed Mix and chilli-infused oil, but I just used dried chilli flakes, sunflower and pumpkin seeds, and normal unfrozen potatoes. Don't be tempted to skip the halloumi and seed garnish, it really ties the room together!
• Commercial Break - There's only 27 sleeps until the Dietgirl book comes out in the USA. Woohoo! It makes me squirm to slip into Book Tart mode, but did you know that around 180,000 books are published in the States per year? One must sing from the rooftops, HEY put doon that Steven King, have I got a tale for YOU while one still has the chance.
  
  So, the book is out soon and the lovely folks at HarperCollins have done an amazing job pouring my ramblings into a portable package. A package that might very well look cosy underneath your Christmas tree. Or the tree of your Mum or Nanna or Aunt Bethel or Steven the Goldfish. As they used to say on the Toyota Mitsubishi adverts, PLEASE CONSIDER.
  
  In January I'll be rattling around the web on a virtual book tour visiting some fabulous blogs - there'll be interviews and reviews and podcasts and free copies to be won! In the meantime we have your choice of two snazzy widgets that you can splash on blogs, Facebooks and MySpaces:
  
  Widget #1. Countdown clock - count down the minutes to publication day (advent calendars are sooo 1851!)
  
  Widget #2. Browse Inside! - Have a good ol stickybeak at the actual pages. You can even search the entire book. 13 results for "chicken", 117 results for "fat", 19 results for "arse", for example.
  

The Olden Days

Still without Internet access at home! Tapping this oot on phone at bus stop.

How are you all? Is life treating you well or is it being a bit of a turkey? Speaking of which, what are you all having for thanksgiving dinner?

Can anyone explain how sweet potatoes and marshmallows ended up in a dish together?

If you're not in thanksgiving territory, have you had any tasty dinners of late?

Man, I miss internetland.

Update: Sorry about the screwy comments! Should be okay now. I tried to implement Typepad's fancy new Connect feature but my crusty circa-2003 templates aren't up to the job :)

Transition

Hello luvvies! I come to you from neither here nor there!

We're about 87% done with the moving of objects; now we're down to the annoying dregs. Back in the 90s the comedian Jimeoin had a song called The Third Drawer Down Is Full Of Shit, and that is certainly true in our kitchen. Broken candles, batteries, guitar tuning thingos; seventy-five varieties of cold and flu tablets.

The new house is brilliant. The landlord left us a bottle of wine, flowers, soap and two rolls of loo paper! Renting is cool - all the novelty of a new abode without the buttock-clenching drama of a mortgage.

We've got no mobile phone reception and the broadband's not connected yet, so well behind with all online thingies. Apologies for the even crappier than usual email response times!

Meanwhile, the grass is lovely. On Sunday arvo I emerged briefly from the Jungle o' Boxes to appreciate the view out the lounge room window. Birdwatching report:

• a robin
• some tiny black thing with white splodges on its face
• flock of geese in tidy V formation
• flock of seagulls returning home after hard day at the rubbish tip.

There is also a wee shop three minutes walk down the road which sells fresh bread, Yeo Valley yogurt and dangerously, my favourite bacon that was previously only obtainable at the monthly farmer's market. If not for the strange lack of Green & Blacks chocolate it would be total foodie ponce heaven. Our old corner shop only sold Regal King Size cigarettes, tabloid newspapers and Whiskas.

Here we go

Whilst shoving my worldly possessions into boxes I found my 2006 food diary, in which I'd faithfully documented Wot I Ate. I wish I'd kept up that habit - even a one-line description gets the memories flooding back. Hot chocolate in Amsterdam, paella in Valencia; burnt porridge in the office microwave.

But then I remembered that in addition to the paper diary I was also tracking my calories online. And in addition to that, for the first six months there was a running tally on a spreadsheet, so in May I could tell you I'd eaten precisely 96 apples, 9 chocolate digestive biscuits, 205 cups of tea and 1 serve of vegetarian haggis. How bloody sad is all that!?

These days I'm not so loony, but I'm still trying to find the balance between paying attention to what I chomp but not being obsessive about it. I can go months without writing anything down and do fine on instinct alone. Then other times the portions creep up and the jeans start squeezing, so I start journaling again to reel myself back in. Hmm.

. . .

So the move starts tomorrow, woohoo! Everything is a shambles. This is my sixth move since starting this blog. Blog technology has come a long way since 2001 but there have no ground-breaking innovations in the science of moving house. It still blows!

Back in 2000 before the lard-busting began, I helped The Mothership move. She left me unsupervised temporarily while she went to a very important quilting workshop. I was tasked with moving three trillion sets of crumbly encyclopedias from one house to the other - just half a block apart.

This is one moment from my Larger Days that I can still recall with painful accuracy. I brushed it off with jokes when I wrote about it at the time, but as I lugged pile after pile of heavy books to the car, I honestly thought I was going to die. It was September so it can't have been that hot yet, and the distance between the house to the car was all of ten metres. But I can still feel my burning skin and hear my jagged breath and rattling heart. Every step was painful. I flopped down on the front veranda, desperately gulping for breath and worrying how/if I'd get back up. Should I call Mum? Or an ambulance? Would I fit in an ambulance? Panic, shame, humiliation; so much hatred and anger.

After twenty minutes I crawled to my feet and came up with a crafty plan. I brought the big wheelie recycling bin into the house then unceremoniously tossed the encyclopedias inside, one by one. Then I slowly walked them round to the new house and poured them out onto the floor. Just three trips and I was all done! I felt so clever and resourceful and went back to telling myself that everything was just fine.

Skippy

Trout begone! It could have been the fresh air or the scented candles or the baking soda, or maybe the troutstink was cancelled out by the bacon I cooked on Saturday morning. Pig covers fish in the animal version of animal paper-rock-scissors.

In other news, we have quite possibly sold our now pleasantly-scented flat. We might also have rented a wee house! Maybe! I'm permanently scarred by the recent financial shenanigans so despite positive signs like important, legally-binding papers and the buyer coming round last night to Measure Things Up, I won't believe it is actually going to happen until the closing date, two weeks from tomorrow.

We'd put the flat-selling on hold when the bank collapsed, but then we were approached by an interested person so we decided to go for gold. Buyers are hard to come by in these credit crunchy times. And with mortgage deals, interest rates and house prices are so wacky right now, we're just going to rent for awhile because we don't have any nerves left to rush into big decisions.

It also looks like our frozen savings might be defrosted by Christmas, but once again I'm not getting excited. I'm just crossing my fingers that we'll get to spend the holidays in this cosy wee rented house that has a gas hob and a garage and back yard! Sure, it has absolutely no storage whatsoever, but... GRASS, people!

It also has high ceilings which are perfect for skipping practice. I discovered at kickboxing last week that I can't skip for shit. I always boycotted skipping in primary school so never developed the skillz - even at seven years old, I thought I was too wobbly and uncoordinated to try. I'd love to go back and gently kick my paranoid ginger butt because it is bloody embarrassing being 31 years old and having to be instructed. Hands higher! Turn the rope faster! Jump! Jump!

But it's a bloody great workout so I want to improve. I bought a skipping rope last year and never used it due to low ceilings and lack of suitable outdoor space. Soon I'll be able to practice in the privacy of my own home. Give me time people. Soon I'll rock up to class and do a spectacular acrobatic skipping display and jaws will drop. Or at least I'll learn to turn the rope three times without whipping myself in the face.

Troutin' About

I fear we're going to have to abandon the house. Pack up our suitcases and just live in the car. Not because we're drowning in bills and mortgages, but because the place stinks to bloody high heaven.

I innocently pan-fried a trout fillet on Wednesday night and now you can barely breathe for the fish fug.

I scrubbed the pan clean. I took out the rubbish that contained the fish wrappings. I doused every room with air freshener and Febreeze whilst singing, Trout! Trout! Let it all out! But that just made it smell like fishy flowers. So we left the windows wide open all night long... yet the stench persisted, more evil than before.

I've been pseudo-vegetarian for a few years now - I usually reserve meat for when we dine out - so it's been yonks since I cooked fish. Have I forgotten some crucial information? Has fish always been this stinky? Is trout a particularly pungent specimen? Is it because I pan-fried it - would it have been less brutal had I given it a gentle grilling?

"Maybe the fish wasn't fresh," Gareth said as we lay awake and shivering in our oxygen masks last night.

"It was fresh! It was bloody tasty."

"Are you sure it wasn't bad? You haven't had the squits, have you?"

"THE SQUITS? I never want to hear you say that word again!"

"It's a great word! It's one of those words that sounds like its meaning."

"It's onomatopoeic."

"That's what I said."

When I left the house this morning the icy wind rattled through the hallway and I thought perhaps it was getting a little better. But I've just received a text from Gareth: I'm freezing here and it still smells like trout!

I was just trying to get in some Omega-3's, dammit. I'm sticking to sunflower seeds from now on.

Half Man, Half Beast

I felt a strange and pathetic sense of mourning the other day. I was feeling stressed about things so went pacing the aisles at Marks & Spencer, looking for the Perfect Thing to eat. I know I've written about this desperate feeling before. Picking up cheeses and cakes and putting them down again; flipping through the chocolate bars like old vinyl.

I ended up stomping home empty-handed and annoyed, realising there was nothing there that would actually make me feel good or change anything. I think this is what I was trying to get at with that Zombie Eating entry about the hot fudge sundae. Sometimes I miss that feeling of oblivion and escape and just not giving a shit about anything in the world as I stuffed down too much food. It's like a crappy old boyfriend that you once couldn't quit, then you finally sever the ties... then years later you see him down the street and realise the old magic is gone. You know it's for the best but you still feel a little sad that you don't have that source of thrills anymore.

Anyone else feel like that sometimes? Put me out of my misery here!

. . .

I can't remember on which blog I read a great entry about the perils of spending more time blogging about being healthy than actually doing the healthy stuff. Like sitting on the couch writing about exercise while mice nibble at your dumbells. Was that your blog? Sorry for my scatty brain!

Either way, you got me thinking that I needed less talk and more action, hence I've been a bit quiet. More soup making and further attempts to restore my fitness to pre-New York levels. Meanwhile I've written a couple of new entries on my non-fat blog about the Halloween weekend. Woohoo!

Happy Voting Day, America! The world writhes in anticipation.

Shaunas utrolige forvandling

I'm heading into my sixth Scottish winter and it's always a shock, that first Monday after the clocks go back and we leave work in the dark. Then I turn into a crotchety zombie until March, but I'll exercise like a mofo and get the endorphins buzzing. Perhaps also tape a photo of a tropical beach to the computer for backup.

I know there's a few Southern Hemisphere imports out there - I hope you were gathering up your Happy Funtime Memories over the summer like lunatic squirrels, ready to feast on during the bleak months ahead. But seriously, there is much to look forward to. Christmas parties, BBC period dramas; satsumas, clementines and other easy-to-peel citrus.

. . .

Are there any Norwegians in the house?

Today I received copies of the Norwegian edition of Dietgirl which came out this month. It's got Smarties on the cover! You cannae go wrong with that.

Vega, the publishing house, only got in touch in March and they've turned it into a real live book already! Hardcover with full colour photos too. Swanky.

Spare a thought for Carina Westberg, the translator. I can't imagine anything more tedious than having to translate cake and arse and scale and post-Drive-thru-remorse eleventeen billion times.

I don't understand a jot of Norwegian but that hasn't stopped me lovingly stroking the pages this evening and gawking at all the funny squiggles. And... Doktor G!

Weight Watchers needs no translation apparently.

If you're Norwegian or you just happen to be fluent and fancy a read, please give me a shout!

Dinners with Bloggers

I did some quality blognobbing while in New York. Meeting bloggers always turns out to be the highlight of my travels. Aye, even better than the food!

When I started blogging in 2000 people would gasp in horror if you mentioned meeting Internet Folk. Axe murderers! Unwashed nerds! But now everyone spews their guts online so it's cool.

Gareth has come to enjoy tagging along, too. We rock up to our destination and he says with infinite patience, "Any appointments? What stranger are we dining with this evening?"

Seems Brooklyn is where the bloggers are at; we spent half our time over there. On our second night we met up with Pamela in Park Slope. We've been blog buddies for yonks and finally met at BlogHer last year, so I was dead chuffed to see her again.

We started off with a spot of neighbourhood window shopping. I fell in love with a robot sculpture in a hipster boutique - it had a ye olde box camera for a body and flash bulbs for eyes. But it was $600, dammit. We also rummaged through vintage clothing shops, in which I realised I'd need to drop at least another twenty pounds for vintage clothing to be really viable. Then I decided I couldn't be arsed and would just have to stick to H&M.

Woohoo!

Today there's a wee interview with me on Sahar's Fat Fighter TV site - she's included me into her Weight Loss Wall of Fame! Check out that cheesy author photo.

Answering Sahar's questions made me think about my awkwardness with the Weight Loss Success Story tag. I guess because the word story implies a narrative with a neat resolution but the reality is a sprawling, never-ending Choose Your Own Adventure tale.

Weight loss is also a strange thing to congratulate somebody for. I'm more inclined to cheer about my Moonwalking or my kickboxing or writing a book. Especially because the feat of losing 175lb means you had to have 175lb extra pounds in the first place. Now that's an achievement in itself.

If you like a good Before and After be sure to check out the other Weight Loss WooHoo's on the site. Thanks for inviting me over, Sahar!

Reassurance Soup

I had a good nose though Jamie Oliver's latest cookbook in the supermarket last night and really liked the look of his Spring Vegetable and Bean Soup. So I took a shifty photo of the recipe with my phone.

I was riddled with guilt by the time we got to the dairy aisle because that's a terrible copyright infringement and I really should have bought the book, because even taking into account the generally rubbish royalties for supermarket sales, my pennies could have contributed to Poppy Nectarine and Lulu Cherry's school fees. I can't remember the proper names of his kids but they're edible ones.

Anyway Jamie old chap - if you somehow see this and think I'm a thieving git, I promise I will order your book come pay day. I do like your recipes. And I hope you do more TV shows like Jamie At Home, where it's just you and lots of really great, simple food. I admire your crusades but I miss the cookin'.

I am not even going to try and hide behind jokes today. Everything seems to be going a bit shit all at once. I am concentrating on doing little things that make me feel good and sturdy and capable. Fish suppers and Wispa bars are not longterm solutions.

So this arvo I did a weights DVD for the first time in a month. I untangled the mess of clothes and shoes in the bottom of the wardrobe. I purchased a truckload of birthday cards because everyone I bloody know seems to be born in the last week of October.

And then I made Jamie's soup. Well sort of, because I only managed to photograph three quarters of the page. That will learn me for being a copyright bandit. The soup is dead wholesome and simple, and nestled in a plastic container for my lunch tomorrow it looks like Reassurance in a Box. Yum yum.

Frozen

I went back to kickboxing on Monday and finally got my orange belt!

I think we're supposed to wear them in class but I don't fancy it. It's thick and bulky and  I'm already toting enough stuff around my middle, quite naturally. I'll just put it on a shelf and admire it. It will come in dandy if I ever need to tie a damsel to a train track.

. . .

It has been a freaky week. I was going to write about my small tale of woe earlier, but I always feel like a right old goose when I express discontent en blog because someone always emails to say that my tale of woe is nuthin, because their cat only has one leg and their house is on fire, as they speak. Normally I can smile and say, I bow down to your superior misery, but last week I decided to be pathetic and hide offline.

Anyway! Here is the middle class pickle that Dr G and I have found ourselves in.

Holiday Hangover

On Saturday night we went to a beer festival. It was all for charity, as they reminded us in the programme:

(the next bit of that sentence was "...of Dunfermline Rugby Club.")

You get a glass on arrival then you get stuck right in to your choice of 77 different ales. I reckon the best strategy is to go for the one's with the funniest names, such as Enter the Flagon, Sheepshagger's Gold, Old Fecker and Laughing Gravy.

Only problem is I can't stand beer in any strength or shade, so I sampled the ciders instead. I'm not much good with cider either but the words of the programme haunted me:

"I know this is difficult but please keep fighting those drinks down, as every pint is more money for the lifesaving work of The Anthony Nolan Trust..."

So in this photie I am absolutely shitfaced from a wimpy pair of pints, right before the dancing began and I knocked Gareth's glass of Farmer's Pale Ale all over his head with my stylish moves.

No alcohol-related hangover on Sunday, just one of those reality hangovers. I did really well in New York with my food - the now tried-and-true tactic of being choosy then savouring the goods. But when we got home it was a week of back to school blues - we both picked up rotten colds so moped around having a Who's The Most Unwell contest with multiple takeaways and minimal vegetables. On Friday I ate cake for breakfast on the premise that I'd forgotten to bring a spoon to work for my yogurt and muesli... ignoring the seventy spoons in the office kitchen... hmm hmm.

I made a Comeback Curry last night - packed with spinach, butternut squash and black beans - with the aim of starting the new week as I mean to go on. I'm still barking and snottery so had to bail on kickboxing tonight, but I'm determined to have a healthier week. It's taken a long, long time to accept that this maintenance lark means that you will go through unsettled periods. The only way to prevent them would be to live like a robot - never going anywhere or doing anything or interacting with the humans. That doesn't sound very good, so I'll dust off the dumbells and veggies and get back to it.

Friday Link Feast #2

I've been stockpiling links for weeks so let's get 'em oot!

• The Great Kindrochit Quadrathlon
  Now how's this for a hardcore day out in the Scottish countryside?

- Swim 1.5 kilometres across the murky depths of Loch Tay
- Run 15 miles over seven Munros
[ETA: a Munro is a Scottish mountain over 3000 ft]
- Kayak 7 miles back down Loch Tay
- Cycle 34 miles around Loch Tay
- Slice a watermelon in half with a sword then eat it to stop the clock

The Quadrathlon was featured on BBC Scotland's Adventure Show recently and my jaw gaped the whole time. I did two of those Munros and it took me all bloody day, but 200 mad bastards ran over seven plus all that swimming, kayaking and cycling and they were done before sunset.

It's not entirely serious though - there's stops along the way for cakes, hot chocolate and even fish and chips!

• Finding a Bra that Fits - Corinna talks about the importance of good scaffolding.

• The Arm Bra. Lord help us.

• What Would Buffy Do? - "In the grand scheme of things, those few days where you're unable to exercise MEAN NOTHING. Rest. Feel better. Stay positive. You don't have to put yourself at a big success/failure crossroads every time something comes up." I love Skwigg.

• The Cherry Slice Experiment - Cherry Ripes are an Australian sweet that I never ate during 24 years of Australian residency but developed a pathetic longing-for once I moved away. Fab food blog Where's The Beef tries a homemade version, four ways!

• Drop the Boy - This has nothing at all to do with health & fitness but Keris brought it to my attention that Matt and Luke Goss of Bros fame turned 40 this week. FORTY! How could they be forty already? I can't answer that.

Many happy returns, fellas. You're a man. Yes you am.

Everybody's bleeding 'cause the times are tough

"No matter what horrible thing you’re going through, when it’s all over it only takes three seconds to sum it up."

Kada tagged me for a meme awhile back: What is something you'd love to say to your younger selves of 2, 5, 10 and 15 years ago?

The best thing I could say would be the above quote, which came from a Friend of Dooce. Basically - chill out pet, we'll get through and laugh about it later.

I'd also tell myself to stop viewing the world through my fat goggles; that my size is not my most defining characteristic - but would I have listened? I think you have to experience all the wacky experiences and figure that out for yourself.

And a few other things...

2 years - 2006

• Enjoy the 2006 MotoGP season while it lasts, because it's going to profoundly SUCK from now on.

5 years - 2003

• There are approximately 27 different shades of Scottish accent - they're not all going to sound like Sean Connery.
• About that vow you just wrote in your diary - how you're ALWAYS going to wear sexy undies for your lovely new boyfriend and never let your standards slide? Ha ha ha, I say! And ha ha ha again!

10 years - 1998

• Stop driving half a mile to uni. Walk!
• Just because you work in the fish and chip shop doesn't mean you have to eat all the fish and chips.
• Generic cooking chocolate is not an ideal breakfast.
• You're not meant to feel permanently miserable, and you wouldn't be a stinking failure if you asked for help.

15 years - 1993

• The lyrics of Bon Jovi's Keep The Faith album are not as profound as you might think right now.

Do you have any words of wisdom for your younger self?

Delirious in Dunfermline

Two alliterative blog entry titles in a row! Where and what shall we be tomorrow? Ecstatic in Edinburgh? Topless in Toronto? Maudlin in Madagascar?

So we're back in the Dunny. We zoomed out of New York at Thursday 8PM and somehow six hours later, it was Friday 7AM in the ol UK. When I started writing this entry it was 3PM and I was determined to stay awake til 9PM at least, to assist my return to the land of the living! In the end I was up until 3AM, watching the US Presidential debate thingo. Then slept for twelve hours.

. . .

Nerves aside things went well at Harper Collins; they were all lovely people. It was great to put faces to names after emailling for so long, and now it feels real that soon the ol DG book will exist with color instead of colour, chips instead of crisps and ASS instead of arse. Actually I don't think we changed the arses.

For a book nerd, it was brilliant to stickybeak behind the scenes at a publishing house. I got to visit Transworld in London last year and it was much the same - an endless maze of corridors, posters of bestsellers hanging proudly on the walls; wee offices with editors peeking out like Kilroy cartoons from behind vast stacks of books. Hella cool :)

. . .

Gareth spied these Wo/Men's Health magazines on a newstand. How come the men see results in 8 days but the chicks have to wait 12?!

 

Nervous in New York

Hello dear comrades, it's your trusty foreign correspondent again. I am slightly malnourished after a weekend upstate at a music festival where there was nowt to eat but gyros and candy bars, I shit ye not. Woman cannot live on rock and roll alone unfortunately.

The thing is, my stomach KNEW there was danger ahead. It said into me on Friday morning, "shauna, there is danger ahead. Go to the wee deli round the corner and get some fruuit and veg and sarnies or similar, otherwise I will be growling with pain and turmoil for the next three days."

"Aye right," I said. "we'll be fine!"

But lo, the stomach knows all and the food was really bad and I paid the price. But the music was fab!

Now we're back in NYC for one more day, lots to say but must go to sleep as I am meeting the lovely folks at Harper Collins tomorrow morning to talk about the us dg book which is out in December and if I wasn't typing this on a telephone with one finger I'd tell you about my bundle o nerves and wondering if I should have spent the last six months getting totally svelte and glam and whiter toothed so i'll be more impressive rather than saying "umm...I got an A- for my orange belt, will that help with our marketing at all?"

Hope you're having a great week, luvvies.

Best wishes from my right index finger,
DG

Dance Everybody Dance

Hello comrades! Lacking in imagination, we've come back to New York for our hols this year, combining business with lee-sure. I am tapping this out at snails pace on my phone, no links or cut n paste or edit... fark!

On the plane we got peanuts with five different kinds of sugar... Is that a world record?

We went to the park to watch the nannies and squirrels roam; a pug attempt to mount  labradoodle.

Back to the hotel at 6pm, 11pm back home, to rest our eyes Just For Five Minutes. I said to G, "what do you fancy doing now?" and he mumbled, "Dancing. Studio 54" and suddenly... it's now 6AM!

Must've been tired. Such wild party rockets we are.   

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.

The Oldest Trick in the Book

Dear Makers of Twix,

I consider myself to be a smart consumer and not one to be sucked into your marketing japes but today you got me good.

It was 11AM and I was twitching with the need for chocolate. I went downstairs to the vending machine in search of a small hit.

The Twix was singing to me -  one because it's on my Totally Worth It list and two because the number on the label caught my eye - 142 calories. BARGAIN!

"Dudes! Did you know a Twix only has 142 calories?" I announced to my colleagues moments later through a spray of biscuity crumbs. "Rather economical for two fingers of chococaramel joy! Who woulda thought?"

NB: We're not saddo office cliches who sit around obsessing about diets and thighs and whatnot, but at least seventeen times a week you will hear the phrase, You know, I am totally gagging for a chocolate. So the news of the reasonable-caloried Twix was well received!

Later on I was filling in my online food journal thingo and looked up Twix and it said 284 calories. What the hell? Then I realised it was 142 calories per 28 grams... that is, 142 calories PER BLOODY FINGER.

I can't believe I fell for the oldest trick in the food packaging book: the Per Serve Nutritional Information. I'm known as the grizzled diet veteran with the nerdy blog but now I've made a dick of myself crowing to the comrades, EAT UP KIDS! Get your chocolate hit here!

I bet you have hidden cameras installed in the venue machine and you watch us from your sugar-scented headquarters, lipreading our delight, Wow only 142 calories! Then you pump your corporate fists and cackle as another sucker shoves in their 50p.

It's not that I give a rats how many calories are in your Twix; it was a tasty diversion. I'm boycotting your product purely because you reeled me in with your shiny wrapper and made me feel compelled to prattle on about it like a tit.

The boycott is going to last at least two days. So there!

Sincerely,
Dimwit of Dunfermline

Them's Fightin' Tunes

She wore baby pink gloves, baby pink shoes and a baby pink helmet. She was all of six years old and truly fearsome.

Recently all the kickboxing girls and assorted partners piled into a minibus and headed west for Fight Night. We were there to cheer along two of the girls and our Leader in their respective bouts.

It was a busy card - they started with the tiny wee kids and went all the way up through the spotty teens to the fearsome grown-ups. Our team did brilliantly, but I must admit The Girl In Pink was my true hero. You would not want to try and steal her lunch in the playground. She came out with a face of pure steel, tiny gloves whirling like a windmill. Her opponent was a little boy and she truly kicked his butt.

I think I expected Fight Night to be all dark and skanky but it turned out to be thrills galore with a cosy family atmosphere. And far more civilised than my wee brother's soccer games used to be. The parents were more encouraging than baying for blood. And the kids were so focused and respectful of their peers and their sport.

My favourite part of the night was the Theme Tunes. Everyone from the six-year-old whippersnappers to the creaky old guys got to have their Las Vegas spotlight moment - shadowboxing while the microphone dude gave a rousing intro, then strutting out through the whooping crowd as their chosen song boomed.

How bloody cool to be introduced WITH SONG. Just the ticket to get you pumped for a big occasion. I wish this could be adopted for everyday confidence boosting - I'd breeze through important meetings or dentist appointments if my entrance was preceded by a thumping tune. Kind of like Ally McBeal but less annoying.

All I've got to do is choose. I've been through all the Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath albums, lots of 70s funk plus assorted metal, but I just can't quite seem to nail it. Right now the main contender is Girl's Got Rhythm by AC/DC. Imagine if you will...

Iiiiiiiiiiiiiin the red corner... with the red hair and the red face... the lack of Wonder from Down Under... Shhhiiiooorrrnaaaareeeiiiiddd...

I am spewingly jealous of Gareth's chosen song. It is perfection - swelling opening bars to build anticipation, mega chords for his moment of introduction, followed by the ultimate strutting rhythm. Just picture the swirling spotlights and baritone:

Iiiiiiiiiiiiiin the blue corner... with the blue eyes and the baldy heid... it's the Doctor of Destruction... the PhD of Pain... Gaaaareethhhreeeiidddd.

Michael Jackson's Thriller is Gareth's all-purpose theme tune. He regrets not walking down the aisle to it. He wants to have it for his funeral, with the pallbearers dressed in wolf costumes and doing all the hand actions.

What would your fighting tune be?

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.

Why don't you love yours?

Channel 4 has a new series called The Sculpture Diaries, in which art critic Waldemar Januszczak is determined to convince us that sculpture is the bee's knees of art forms. The first episode looked at the female form. He spoke with Alison Lapper, a British artist who was born without arms and shortened legs, the result of a medical condition called phocomelia. A statue of Alison, Alison Lapper Pregnant by Mark Quinn, occupied the fourth plinth at Trafalgar Square during 2005-2007.

This is my clumsy attempt to transcribe a part of Alison's interview that I really loved:

"... So many people, not just women, [say] 'How can you love your body?' I'm like, Well, why don't you love yours?

I found that very sad, that there are so many people out there, because of the media and all the rubbish that gets thrown at us, [thinking] that we should all be like stick insects with lollipop heads. No thank you."

Friday Link Feast

If you're lazing about on a Friday afternoon - perhaps waiting for your long weekend to start if you're a lucky, lucky American - here's some links I've been meaning to share:

• Charles Atlas Will Make A Man Of You!
  Forget your new-fangled Wii Fit! Todd Levin, the funniest bloke to ever set foot on the internet, went back to Charles Atlas, the original godfather of fitness, and followed his 1922 "Dynamic Tension" course for a month.


• Beetroot, Squash & Halloumi with Chilli-Herb Dressing
  This recipe from Helen Graves is a cracker for your Help! There's A Vegetarian At My Table file. It's the most blow-your-socks off flavoursome salad I've had in a long time - savoury, sweet, fire and crunch in every brilliant bite. I've made it twice this week and already plotting its next appearance..'"

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.

Tell Laura I Love Her

Laura from Leeds! Are you out there? Thank you for Amazoning me the bloody brilliant Last Shadow Puppets CD. I combed through my emails and there's a freakishly high amount of Laura's but the Leeds is throwing me. If you're out there I'd love to say thank you properly :)

In other news, I am guest blogging at Limes & Lycopene today as part of Kathryn's most excellent 31 Days to a Better Diet series. The post is called Tricks & Treats, all about how I overhauled my approach to treat foods, for want of a better term. Honest guv, I'm not always a Zombie!

A sample:

"I sat down and made a list of my favourite foods – all the things that filled my senses and left me truly satisfied. Instead of just writing “chocolate”, I specified particular brands or recipes. It sounds like a dorky thing to do, but it’s helped me to make more mindful choices. I remind myself that there’s a big difference between my grandmother’s homemade caramel slice and the cheap supermarket one that tastes like sand."

Read the rest over at Limes & Lycopene.

Sundae Bloody Sundae

One Friday night I was in the queue at McDonalds, gawking up at the menu board. Where are the caramel sundaes? Surely they still have the caramel sundaes!

I'd barely drank two inches of wine but that's all it took. One minute I was there in the pub yapping away, and the next I was mumbling my goodbyes and heading for the Golden Arches in a trance. I could almost feel the ridges of the plastic cup in my hand, the flimsy spoon clonking against my teeth; the hot goo of the goods on my tongue.

I hadn't eaten a Macca's sundae for about five years - not because I'd gone all righteous and Spurlock about the place, but more that I'd cracked my thrice weekly habit and moved on to other vices. So it was strange that the swirly dessert popped into my head. It appeared right after a pang of panic and claustrophobia. Sometimes I still mildly freak out in social situations, and get an overwhelming urge to run and revert to hermit mode. On some level I still connect escape with food.

People talk about comfort eating or emotional eating but what about ZOMBIE EATING? I've found myself at the Cookie Table at work, staring down at the crumbs on my chest and thinking, What the hell happened there!? The feet and hands and mouth took over before the brain could make the connection between receiving the stressful email and grabbing the biscuits.

Other times I've been glassy-eyed in line at a coffee shop, fixated on the idea of my hand wrapped around a hot cardboard cup of overpriced beverage to soothe an undefined troubled feeling. Then I'll take the first sip and come back to earth... Shit! What did I do that for!?

Back at McDonalds, I was jolted out of my reverie by the dulcet tones of a lady customer, "Arrriiiight hen, gis a Big Mac meal wi' Diet Coke!"

I took in the spotty lad behind the till and the swaying drunks in the queue. Fark! How the bloody hell did I get here?

I left, walked home in the rain and watched telly.

Most times I have the ability to stop, tune in and realise I'm just stressed or anxious or bored or needing to pull a Greta Garbo - and therefore not shove something unnecessary in my gob. But sometimes I don't even register that I'm feeling anything at all. It happens so fast and mindlessly that I don't wake up in time.

Any other Zombies out there?

Note to self: Caramel sundaes are called toffee sundaes in the UK :)

Recipe Corner: Healthier Eton Mess

Strawberries! Quiiiick! Get 'em while you can! Get 'em while they're cheap! Get 'em while they're Scottish!

This is my August shopping mantra. For soon it shall be autumnal and dull and appleish, unless you want strawberries flown in from Guatemala at 70 pence per berry. So right now I'm shoving them into smoothies and salads and cereal and clinging onto summer even though it's pishing doon with rain outside.

My favourite ode to strawberries is Eton Mess. From the Wikipedia:

"Eton mess is a dessert of English origin consisting of a mixture of strawberries, pieces of meringue and cream, which is traditionally served at Eton College's annual prize-giving celebration picnic on the 'Fourth of June' ... One anecdotal story is that the dessert was invented when a Labrador accidentally sat on a picnic basket in the back of a car on the way to a picnic."

Eton mess is basically a mangled pavlova, but with much less faffing. You take just three ingredients - strawberries, meringue and cream - and mix them all together to create a sweet, summery, chewy, delicious... mess. It's also relatively healthy on the dessert spectrum if you make a few tweaks.