Two weeks have passed since I got back from my holiday and I have still not returned to the gym! For shame! We’re off to Body Jam this arvo though. Knowing my luck the songs will have changed, so I will spend the hour swearing and untangling my feet rather than getting a decent workout, but you gotta start somewhere.
. . .
According to my math(s), approximately 97.537% of married Dietgirl readers met their spouse online. That figure may be slightly enhanced but from the comments (and an email) sparked by my O, Tortured Love Life entry, it seems this is the way of the future! You all seem incredibly happy and best of all (from my selfish point of view) it allowed you to give me oodles of advice and Things To Think About while I wasn’t busy curling up in a ball and freaking out.
But then! Everything changed on Tuesday night. I went along to a gig featuring my boy and his band. It was the first time I’d seen him in action. So it was true, after all, he does know how to play that bass, he does spend his Saturdays in a dingy studio that reeks of Man Fumes for good reason. He walked on stage, squinted through the lights til we made eye contact, then gave me a goofy grin and The Fist Of Rock, a la Derek Smalls in Spinal Tap.
And that’s when I felt like I’d been punched in the guts. All of a sudden I just knew, knew knew knew, that I had to have this guy in my life no matter what. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it, and I’ll be happy to do it. All my doubts and fears and freaking out seemed trivial, just annoying little technicalities that we could bumble our through. I just saw everything with perfect clarity, what I wanted, where I wanted to be, and suddenly felt so peaceful.
Let’s hope the feeling’s mutual! Mwahaha.
. . .
Anyway, back to the fat.
My sister and I were both financially crippled by our holidays but we’re in desperate need of some new clobber. Our jeans in particular are looking tired. We want new jeans! But we cannae afford them for awhile. And we don’t want to buy new jeans in our current sizes. Myself in particular – in the past 3.5 years I have bought six new pairs of jeans and each time they were smaller than the last. My current pair were purchased on 4 November 2003 (hours before the first Hot Date with the Scotsman) and have been worn approximately five times a week and almost 11 months later are still the same perfect fit. This is soooo infuriating, especially since in the six months before that I’d gone down two sizes. I’m not used to needing new clothes because they’re worn out – I’ve only been buying new clothes coz the old ones fell off.
So we have set ourselves The Six Week Challenge. Six weeks to scrape together the dosh for fresh denim, and six weeks for the old pair to become at least a little roomy so the new purchase feels financially justified. Our plan is all about gym classes and morning walk/runs, wholesome food, journalling and NO SCALES. Time and time again the pair of us have let our motivation be slaughtered by the scale. We’d weigh in right before our gym class, and if it was bad we’d spend the whole class moaning about how useless we were, how it was all for nothing, looking in the mirrors and pointing out flaws. Which totally takes away from the fact that you made the effort to get to the class and move your ass. Which is 1000 times more important than a number on a scale.
Do you think I can go six weeks without peeking? Hmmm…