This weekend I learned that there are more important things in life than your big fat Boeing 747 arms. Friends, family, love, cake – they are more important than the arms.
Actually, the arms aren’t totally bad these days. It’s amazing what weights and running and regular moisturizing can do. Considering what extra-large lumpy loaves they used to be, they have shrunk and shaped up far more than I ever believed possible. I doubt I’ll ever have the confidence to strut about in a strappy top, but I recently I have been buying cap sleeve t-shirts coz that’s all I can bloody find, and they actually look alright.
Anyway, what was I saying? The arms. Saturday was our Scottish Wedding Party and it was a stinking hot day. Hot for Scotland, that is. It may have been in the high twenties, but it was even hotter inside our wedding venue. We had a ceilidh, in which there is a band with fiddles and accordions and everyone does crazy dances. It is bloody great fun.
I rocked up in my wedding dress, all nervous that I didn’t know 60% of the guests and that no one would have a good time and I would be held personally responsible. It’s amazing how much panic you can work up in your mind. But at least I looked pretty good. The dress fit soooo much better than when we eloped in Vegas four months ago. I may have only lost a couple kilos on the scale since then but I can breathe in the damn thing now! The Scottish Companion’s mother gushed, "You look lovely! You have definitely lost a lot of weight, the dress sits so much better now!". I laughed but she looked horrified when she thought about her words, "Ooh! Not that didn’t look good before! Oh dear."
Still, I felt self conscious about my wobbly arms and tried to disguise them with my shawl-wrap-thingy as I greeted our guests. But as soon as the dancing started I realised I’d have to abandon it. It was just too stinking hot! After just one dance people were sweat-slicked and stumbling off the dance floor to the bar. I was handing out all the cards we’d recevied with wedding gifts, so folk could wave them in front of their faces like fans. I downed a gin and tonic for dutch courage, chucked the shawl on the table, then didn’t spare a thought for my arms for the rest of the night. I mean, really. Who gives a shit about my arms? People were there coz they were my friend or SC’s friend or some grey-haired stranger that SC’s folks knew and they wanted to celebrate our marriage. Plus dance and get drunk. They were too busy having fun to be bothered with my arms. So why the hell was I bothered? Wasn’t I there to have fun too?
So I did. As much as I loved running off to Vegas, having a big party with all our friends was even better. All those happy smiley partying people around us finally made it sink into my brain that we were married. And I was really chuffed about that. And even though I was quite nicely sozzled for most of the night, I was also chuffed to realise I felt comfortable in my skin. I chatted to strangers and friends alike, I danced when the dancefloor was practically empty. I just felt happy and grateful to be alive and well and to know a whole bunch of lovely people. I don’t think this Lard Busting Journey is so much about busting lard as it is about busting insecurities and fears, gaining perspective and learning how to like yourself… and just to like life, really. I used to crawl through my days like a slug, both in body and mind, numb and listless. Not anymore.
So two weddings down, one to go.
All that partying led to a gain on the scale this week. I’m back up to 87.1 kilos. Ooh er! What can I say, not only did my sister and I get reacquainted with each other, but also with some brownies and chocolate shakes and burgers and chips and sausage rolls. I had a great time, but now with just ten weeks til I fly back to Australia it’s time to get my arse into gear. I am not going to set dozens of lofty goals, but instead just one: Track Food Every Single Day using WLR. If I can do this, everything else usually falls into place.
I just have to share some a recent Woohoo Moment. Today I am wearing a t-shirt from John Lewis and it is a size 14. I bought some 3/4 gym pants and they are a size 14. I bought some little padded bike shorts online for my RPM class I got the 14/16 and they were too big so I sent back and got the 12/14 which fits perfectly. Now this means sweet bugger all since everything else I own is a size 16 and fits just right. I have some size 16 undies my Mum sent from oz that are way too tiny. Sizes are weird and inconsistent. But holy crap, I have some stuff that has a 1 and a 4 on the label! Do you know the last time I had something in a size 14 was my Year 10 formal dress? Twelve years ago! So even if it means diddley squat, I do like to look at those labels and shriek, "Woohoo! There’s a 1 and a 4 on there!".
Incidentally I got fitted for a new bra the other day since the cups were swimming on some of my old ones, and I was a 34DD! What the hell? Last time I got measured in December 2003 I was 38C. I was coughing and spluttering indignantly at the Measuring Lady for daring to give me such a hefty measurement. She had to explain to me very patiently how it all works. I must be the only person in the world who didn’t realise that the cup sizes change along with the band sizes. So the cup of a 34DD is smaller than the cup of a 40DD or 38C. So I had shrunk and she wasn’t implying I was a fatass. You learn something every day, I tells ya.