I have a confession to make. It is not a confession I ever thought I would make. Certainly not when I was being picked last for games throughout the entirety of my schooldays. Nor when I was paying to be a member of a gym for years at a time and only going once a month. Not even when I used to 'quite like' doing the Jane Fonda workout in the 80s. My confession is this:
I have turned into the kind of person who goes to the gym to make myself feel better.
Do you hear that sound? It's a kind of creaking, cracking sound that might be familiar from December of last year. It is the sound of something freezing over - in this case, it is the sound of hell freezing over.
Let me explain how I came to this conclusion. Yesterday evening, I was having a bit of a wobble. I was feeling January-ish (it's cold, it's dark, there's nothing much to look forward to); I'd had a bit of a tetchy conversation with my boss earlier in the day; I was, as ever, disappointed by the fact that I still hadn't won the Lottery on Saturday and thus couldn't give up work entirely. My other work colleagues seemed a bit strung out and down too. I suddenly really really missed all my friends. Usually, after a mildly trying day, I would've texted or emailed a couple of people and suggested a trip to the pub for a whinge over a bottle of wine, or a spontaenous visit to the cinema and then we'd have formulated a plan to do something fun and cheering in the next couple of weeks as well.
But up here, I haven't yet managed to accumulate a gaggle of friends who can be called upon at short notice to be, essentially, moaned at for an hour, whilst I pull myself out of a minor Slough of Despond. So instead of going home to watch TV and eat chocolate, I forced myself to go to the gym. I got changed, went to the loo, and had a bit of a cry whilst I was in there. Yeah, it was one of those days - all got a bit much, frankly. The internal conversation ran as follows:
Self-pitying Me: 'WHY did I decide to move to the opposite end of the country, removing myself entirely from all my family and friends?'
Rational Me: 'Because it seemed like a good idea to shake yourself out of all sorts of ruts'
SP Me: '[Sob] They weren't such bad ruts, were they?'
R Me: 'Um, well, no, not in the grand scheme of things. But aren't you, you know, kind of happy in general now? You know, with the lovely flat, and less stress at work, and not having to go on the Tube every day and worry about people blowing you up - stuff like that?'
SP Me: 'Well, yes, there is all that, but I miss going to the pub and having lots of people to suggest doing things with and the fact that I don't have to explain anything to my old friends, they just know and I am REALLY BORED OF WATCHING SHIT TELLY'
R Me: 'I don't think this is getting you anywhere fast. Dry your eyes, pet, and let's just go and flail about on a treadmill for a bit. You can lie when it asks you how old you are, if that'll make you feel better. Sweating and feeling tired will at least take your mind off all this while you're doing it'
SP Me: 'OK. Yes, you're right. I can always phone someone afterwards if I still feel crap'
R Me: 'Well done. Now, just hope that you don't bump into Cheerful James, or anyone else that you know, and have to confess that you're having a bit of a ladymoment'
I was filling up my water bottle when naturally, Cheerful James popped up at my shoulder, greeting me, bien sur, cheerfully, and then dragging me off to be introduced to someone. GAAH. Of course he's going to introduce me to someone when I have just been crying in the loo. He's been saying he wants me to have a session with a mate of his who is a 'biomechanics specialist' who will hopefully sort out my knackered left shoulder and my dodgy posture. And there he is. Man Mountain Gary, who is eleventy foot tall, must surely at some stage have been in the Marines, and looks as though he could crush me like a bug. He is also insanely good looking. I remind you once more, I am fresh from having a cry in the loos. I try to avoid looking at him, as he says that he'll email me to arrange an appointment. Having a red-eyed and now probably red-faced girl staring at you is probably less than ideal for insanely good looking man mountains. It is also cripplingly embarrassing when you are the red-eyed, red-faced girl in question. 'I hope he just assumes I'm having problems with the contact lenses that I don't actually wear', I thought, as I dashed off in search of a treadmill.
So, I assumed I'd force myself through twenty minutes or so of exercise, and then go home to carry on feeling miserable. But, dear reader, I managed a full hour of machines, weights and the like, and by the time I got home, I felt absolutely fine. Fine, I tell you! Albeit still hell bent on eating a large bowl of pasta with pesto and indulging in both Heat and that mad gypsy wedding programme on Channel 4. But yes, going to the gym, instead of being a horrible chore that I had to drag myself through had actually made me feel better.
When I moved here 6 months ago, one of the questions I was asked on my first night was whether I did any sport (by a very hearty bunch of people who were friends of the girl I was staying with). They'd just spent half an hour discussing whether or not one of them should buy a new bike, and if so, what sort of bike they should buy. I thought I was going to gnaw my own arm off with boredom. I said that my interests were largely sedentary and they all gazed at me, thoroughly perplexed. 'Why would you not want to play golf/tennis/squash and go running/cycling/kayaking during any available free moment?' I could feel them thinking. 'Because that sounds like horrible, hard work and I'd rather read a book or watch telly', I mentally replied.
Ironic, then, that I appear to have morphed into the kind of person who could give Davina McCall a run for her money in the gym-going stakes. If I manage to carry on for another 6 months, can I also have Davina's insanely shiny hair and presenting gig on The Biggest Loser? Because if there's no monetary value attached to this metamorphosis from sofa slug to Fully Bionic Human Being, then I've just crossed that invisible line. The one that marked me out as 'one of us' and has turned me into 'one of them' - the freaks who actually enjoy going to the gym and feel weird if they don't go for a couple of days. Which brings me perilously close to the danger zone in which I will suddenly wake up one day and think that taking up golf 'might be fun'.
Wednesday 26 January 2011
Tuesday 18 January 2011
Resolving to make no Resolutions
So, it's over halfway through January, which is another free Reason to be Cheerful. January is proving to be less boring than usual, as I've decided to give up on giving up booze (I usually spend the first month of every year booze-free as a penance for Christmas/New Year and a vague attempt to lose weight). Instead I've decided that, new life, new habits style - I think you're allowed to use that as a motivating force for the first year of a new life - I shall instead embrace booze. I've been treating myself to red wine at home of an evening, which is proving to be very pleasant.
It is also extremely nice not to feel browbeaten into some sort of punitive detox routine. Magazines and newspapers at this time of year are full to the brim with 'recipes' for juices (you don't need a recipe, you just squash all the fun bits out of anything you were planning to eat and then have to wash up a machine with 37 parts afterwards); exhortations to give up alcohol, caffeine, sugar, meat, dairy, wheat and anything else that's worth eating or drinking at this time of year, and replace them with green tea, pounding away on a treadmill and sweating in a sauna as a treat.
The reason I don't feel the need to do any of this, is that I was kind of doing it anyway before Christmas - well, bar the booze and the coffee, both of which remain mainstays, but the booze is less prevalent than it was when I lived in London. London life, in a rose-tinted way, now seemed to me to revolve round cocktails and wine in pubs and nice bars in a manner that suggested I was either a Sex and the City wannabe, or Jeffrey Bernard. That's not true, I never drank that much, but I really don't go out much here yet, so feel relatively teetotal.
But I've managed to cut right down on dairy (bar milk in the aforementioned coffee), mainly cut out wheat (it really doesn't agree with my digestion and is also on Cheerful James's Banned List) and was trying hard to avoid sugar. I don't very often eat meat, and am still scoffing salmon like a seal, so it was all going fine. Until the Great Carb Rebellion of Christmas and the dreaded Between Christmas and New Year Period, when seemingly all be(l)ts are off and it's a free for all. I threw myself with particularly wild abandon at the pannetone that appeared everywhere. One of my friends got given three for a Christmas party she hosted, one of which made it to mine at New Year.
I ate it with Bailey's in a bread and butter pudding (sugar, wheat, cream and booze - ticking all the boxes there). I had it toasted with butter for breakfast. I had big chunks of it just because it was there. Still there. Still not stale enough to justify throwing it away (wasteful). There was some exciting shop-bought custard that hadn't been eaten, so I had some of that with pannetone and prunes (surprisingly good). I probably would've made it into a duvet and slept under it if I could've.
But like many a holiday romance, mine has now ended. Now it is back to scrambled eggs for breakfast and salmon for lunch. It's back to pounding away at the gym, praying that Cheerful James will let me off another week of being weighed and measured. I was doing so well before Christmas that I very nearly awarded myself a Chufty Medal for Exercise - I'd managed to get down to something like 14.5% body fat (from 22.3% - ooh, STATS!) and had put on 7lb of muscle since the middle of September, for anyone who cares about such things. CJ is threatening to put 'before' and 'after' photos of me on the wall of the gym. I cannot express how utterly mortifying this would be. Surely that is the preserve of Biggest Loser types, who've lost 5 stone and gone from 'blimpishly fat' to a size 12? Rather than me, who's gone from a bit of a muffin top and arms devoid of any muscle or definition to losing half a stone and being able to get the lids off jam jars? It doesn't feel sufficiently inspirational to see a photo of me with a few wobbly bits, grinning with embarrassment, next to a photo of me with fewer wobbly bits, grinning with embarrassment.
Perhaps I embarked on the Great Carb Rebellion in order to avoid being on the wall of the gym and pointed at by punters thinking, 'Who's that girl, who clearly thinks she's better than she is?' Or perhaps I should just use one of my newly-muscled arms to punch James and tell him to find another former fatty to put on the wall. Yes, that sounds better. I've always meant to try boxing.
It is also extremely nice not to feel browbeaten into some sort of punitive detox routine. Magazines and newspapers at this time of year are full to the brim with 'recipes' for juices (you don't need a recipe, you just squash all the fun bits out of anything you were planning to eat and then have to wash up a machine with 37 parts afterwards); exhortations to give up alcohol, caffeine, sugar, meat, dairy, wheat and anything else that's worth eating or drinking at this time of year, and replace them with green tea, pounding away on a treadmill and sweating in a sauna as a treat.
The reason I don't feel the need to do any of this, is that I was kind of doing it anyway before Christmas - well, bar the booze and the coffee, both of which remain mainstays, but the booze is less prevalent than it was when I lived in London. London life, in a rose-tinted way, now seemed to me to revolve round cocktails and wine in pubs and nice bars in a manner that suggested I was either a Sex and the City wannabe, or Jeffrey Bernard. That's not true, I never drank that much, but I really don't go out much here yet, so feel relatively teetotal.
But I've managed to cut right down on dairy (bar milk in the aforementioned coffee), mainly cut out wheat (it really doesn't agree with my digestion and is also on Cheerful James's Banned List) and was trying hard to avoid sugar. I don't very often eat meat, and am still scoffing salmon like a seal, so it was all going fine. Until the Great Carb Rebellion of Christmas and the dreaded Between Christmas and New Year Period, when seemingly all be(l)ts are off and it's a free for all. I threw myself with particularly wild abandon at the pannetone that appeared everywhere. One of my friends got given three for a Christmas party she hosted, one of which made it to mine at New Year.
I ate it with Bailey's in a bread and butter pudding (sugar, wheat, cream and booze - ticking all the boxes there). I had it toasted with butter for breakfast. I had big chunks of it just because it was there. Still there. Still not stale enough to justify throwing it away (wasteful). There was some exciting shop-bought custard that hadn't been eaten, so I had some of that with pannetone and prunes (surprisingly good). I probably would've made it into a duvet and slept under it if I could've.
But like many a holiday romance, mine has now ended. Now it is back to scrambled eggs for breakfast and salmon for lunch. It's back to pounding away at the gym, praying that Cheerful James will let me off another week of being weighed and measured. I was doing so well before Christmas that I very nearly awarded myself a Chufty Medal for Exercise - I'd managed to get down to something like 14.5% body fat (from 22.3% - ooh, STATS!) and had put on 7lb of muscle since the middle of September, for anyone who cares about such things. CJ is threatening to put 'before' and 'after' photos of me on the wall of the gym. I cannot express how utterly mortifying this would be. Surely that is the preserve of Biggest Loser types, who've lost 5 stone and gone from 'blimpishly fat' to a size 12? Rather than me, who's gone from a bit of a muffin top and arms devoid of any muscle or definition to losing half a stone and being able to get the lids off jam jars? It doesn't feel sufficiently inspirational to see a photo of me with a few wobbly bits, grinning with embarrassment, next to a photo of me with fewer wobbly bits, grinning with embarrassment.
Perhaps I embarked on the Great Carb Rebellion in order to avoid being on the wall of the gym and pointed at by punters thinking, 'Who's that girl, who clearly thinks she's better than she is?' Or perhaps I should just use one of my newly-muscled arms to punch James and tell him to find another former fatty to put on the wall. Yes, that sounds better. I've always meant to try boxing.
Tuesday 4 January 2011
Welcome to the Cheap Sweets
Ah, the New Year - ushered in with the usual array of post-Christmas penury, the addition of festive flab and the sheer drear of returning to work. Even when there's hardly anyone at work, and you spend the first five minutes of every encounter with a colleague exchanging information about how their holiday was. But 2011 has an added excitement - we now have to pay more VAT on everything! As if we weren't feeling bleak enough, having spent far too much on presents and in the sales, and fallen off the dietary bandwagon, gammon-faced Cameron has really stuck the boot in.
In these straightened times, one must turn to the world of cheap thrills in order to cheer oneself up. I was thinking last night of a list of free, or nearly free delights with which to start my year.
1/ The gargantuan plastic jar of sweets which my boss provided for Christmas will surely still yield a few more Dolly Mixtures. I've no idea what's in Dolly Mixtures - I'm hoping, in a Toy Story 3 style, that it's not actual dollies - but they are awesome. If you haven't had any since you were 10, then get a bag, throw away the jelly ones if there are any (urgh), and dig in. They're tiny, so you can eat fifty of them and feel like you haven't really been that bad. There's something about the slightly fudgy texture, and the constant question of, 'do the orange ones really taste different from the purple ones?' that is just as pleasing as scoffing Green and Black's Butterscotch chocolate. Albeit in a way that's a bit like reading the latest Jilly Cooper in hardback when you know you should really be reading Jonathan Frantzen.
2/ There is no snow and ice left in Edinburgh. I can't overstate the pure pleasure I felt this morning when I put on a pair of boots with a heel, instead of walking boots, and walked at a normal pace, rather than my tiny-geisha-steps-shuffle. It's a joy that's equal to the one you get when the Anadin Extra kicks in and your vicious headache finally disappears. Snow, and its ensuing dramas, was fine for the first week, and then it became a total pain in the arse. Thank you, 2011, for starting without any more of it, and for melting (nearly all) of the remainder whilst I was away for Christmas.
3/ I got given John Lewis vouchers as part of my Christmas present (a joy in and of itself; you know you're middle aged when John Lewis becomes your favourite shop. I reached that landmark about 10 years ago, truth be told. Take me on a trip to look at toasters and baking equipment in the kitchen department, and I'm happy). The vouchers were to purchase a new duvet cover and pillow cases. The ones in the flat were fine, but not really me (they're a bit... brown), so I was eyeing up some with a bit of embroidery on. I bought them. I even managed to put them on, on the actual day of purchase (surely one of my Resolutions for this year is to Stop. Bloody. Procrastinating). I snuggled under the duvet and marvelled at how great it is to cuddle up under a brand new, crispy, white cotton duvet cover. 'This is what it must be like for people quite often, who iron their duvet covers', I thought. 'Best make the most of it, then', my inner voice declared. 'Given you've only just bought an iron for the first time in 4 years, it's not likely you're going to suddenly morph into the kind of person who irons their duvet cover.'
4/ Now it's the 4th of January, we can hopefully stop reviewing 2010, and I can also stop being told what I should like/be anticipating for 2011. There's a raft of doubtless thrilling theatrical productions in London which I won't see, because I'm not there for long enough to fit in theatre visits and pub sessions with my mates. Ditto art exhibitions, although I am planning a trip to a Dior illustration exhibition when I'm in town on Thursday. Books I should be reading? I'm still planning to fit in 2009's Booker winner at some stage. New bands? To be honest, I'm still happy with the banjo stylings of Mumford and Sons. (Added benefit: for some reason, it's the only music that will persuade me to actually run on a treadmill. I have no such hopes for the XX or The Vaccines, which people in the know are indicating are this year's New Big Thing.)
5/ As everyone's got an iPad for Christmas - I've no idea if this is a fact, I'm just assuming loads of people have - people can stop asking me if I've got an iPhone and whether I know how to use it. The answers to those questions are:
Yes, and it's lovely and shiny
and
No, of course I don't, it's for work, and every time I try to make a phone call on it, it freaks me out. And that touch-screen typing thing doesn't work for me either. It's mainly useful for looking at things on eBay when you're waiting for someone and you're bored. And as a side point, having, 'sent from my iPhone' at the end of all your emails is annoying; it's like you're boasting about the fact that you've got one.
6/ Everyone seems to agree that Frankie Boyle's Tramadol Nights is quite the worst comedy thing that's ever been put on TV (other than Come Fly with Me, but as I haven't seen that, I'll just have to rely on the trailers making it look excruciating, and at least a decade past its sell-by date). I don't know why all these stand-ups have suddenly decided that they're great at doing sketch shows. Maybe it stops them using up great swathes of their stand-up material that they're still touring/trying to shift on DVD. But they're all having a crack at it, and they're all shit. Stephen K. Amos - perfectly nice fellow, I'm sure, but his show looked like a Lenny Henry series from the early '80s. Surely the BBC's comedy commissioner didn't really say, 'Ooh, you're not white, therefore you have to have quite a few sketches where you dress up as your own mum?' Channel 4's new offering is some woman called Morgana (ever heard of her? No, me neither; was slightly expecting the screechy witch from the Kevin Costner Robin Hood film trying out a Derren Brown-influenced prediction show). Her schtick seems to be funny wigs and googly glasses for each character. Because people with chronically bad eyesight and frizzy hair are always hilarious.
But Frankie really wins all the awards for this category hands down. I used to think he was deeply unpleasant but occasionally very funny on Mock the Week. Then he sacked one of my friends, who was supposed to be doing the PR for his mystifyingly popular book, on the basis of a typo in an email. Then Channel 4 give him a bucket of cash to make offensive stand-up jokes (TM the Daily Mail), interspersed with terrible sketches. The brief for which appears to have been: make them 3 times as long as they need to be, with no punchlines, and referencing TV shows and films that are at least fifteen years old. With terrible wigs. And no acting ability. Which are also offensive. In the one I saw, the sketches were based around Knight Rider and The Green Mile. It's a much debated question - what constitutes offence in comedy, and whether any subject is off-limits - but the basics for me are always, 'do I laugh, and then have a bit of a guilty intake of breath, or do I just think, "bloody hell, that's offensive, and it's not even funny".'
Let's hope one of Frankie's New Year's resolutions is to give it all up, as he keeps threatening to, and then I'll have another VAT-free pleasure to add to my list.
In these straightened times, one must turn to the world of cheap thrills in order to cheer oneself up. I was thinking last night of a list of free, or nearly free delights with which to start my year.
1/ The gargantuan plastic jar of sweets which my boss provided for Christmas will surely still yield a few more Dolly Mixtures. I've no idea what's in Dolly Mixtures - I'm hoping, in a Toy Story 3 style, that it's not actual dollies - but they are awesome. If you haven't had any since you were 10, then get a bag, throw away the jelly ones if there are any (urgh), and dig in. They're tiny, so you can eat fifty of them and feel like you haven't really been that bad. There's something about the slightly fudgy texture, and the constant question of, 'do the orange ones really taste different from the purple ones?' that is just as pleasing as scoffing Green and Black's Butterscotch chocolate. Albeit in a way that's a bit like reading the latest Jilly Cooper in hardback when you know you should really be reading Jonathan Frantzen.
2/ There is no snow and ice left in Edinburgh. I can't overstate the pure pleasure I felt this morning when I put on a pair of boots with a heel, instead of walking boots, and walked at a normal pace, rather than my tiny-geisha-steps-shuffle. It's a joy that's equal to the one you get when the Anadin Extra kicks in and your vicious headache finally disappears. Snow, and its ensuing dramas, was fine for the first week, and then it became a total pain in the arse. Thank you, 2011, for starting without any more of it, and for melting (nearly all) of the remainder whilst I was away for Christmas.
3/ I got given John Lewis vouchers as part of my Christmas present (a joy in and of itself; you know you're middle aged when John Lewis becomes your favourite shop. I reached that landmark about 10 years ago, truth be told. Take me on a trip to look at toasters and baking equipment in the kitchen department, and I'm happy). The vouchers were to purchase a new duvet cover and pillow cases. The ones in the flat were fine, but not really me (they're a bit... brown), so I was eyeing up some with a bit of embroidery on. I bought them. I even managed to put them on, on the actual day of purchase (surely one of my Resolutions for this year is to Stop. Bloody. Procrastinating). I snuggled under the duvet and marvelled at how great it is to cuddle up under a brand new, crispy, white cotton duvet cover. 'This is what it must be like for people quite often, who iron their duvet covers', I thought. 'Best make the most of it, then', my inner voice declared. 'Given you've only just bought an iron for the first time in 4 years, it's not likely you're going to suddenly morph into the kind of person who irons their duvet cover.'
4/ Now it's the 4th of January, we can hopefully stop reviewing 2010, and I can also stop being told what I should like/be anticipating for 2011. There's a raft of doubtless thrilling theatrical productions in London which I won't see, because I'm not there for long enough to fit in theatre visits and pub sessions with my mates. Ditto art exhibitions, although I am planning a trip to a Dior illustration exhibition when I'm in town on Thursday. Books I should be reading? I'm still planning to fit in 2009's Booker winner at some stage. New bands? To be honest, I'm still happy with the banjo stylings of Mumford and Sons. (Added benefit: for some reason, it's the only music that will persuade me to actually run on a treadmill. I have no such hopes for the XX or The Vaccines, which people in the know are indicating are this year's New Big Thing.)
5/ As everyone's got an iPad for Christmas - I've no idea if this is a fact, I'm just assuming loads of people have - people can stop asking me if I've got an iPhone and whether I know how to use it. The answers to those questions are:
Yes, and it's lovely and shiny
and
No, of course I don't, it's for work, and every time I try to make a phone call on it, it freaks me out. And that touch-screen typing thing doesn't work for me either. It's mainly useful for looking at things on eBay when you're waiting for someone and you're bored. And as a side point, having, 'sent from my iPhone' at the end of all your emails is annoying; it's like you're boasting about the fact that you've got one.
6/ Everyone seems to agree that Frankie Boyle's Tramadol Nights is quite the worst comedy thing that's ever been put on TV (other than Come Fly with Me, but as I haven't seen that, I'll just have to rely on the trailers making it look excruciating, and at least a decade past its sell-by date). I don't know why all these stand-ups have suddenly decided that they're great at doing sketch shows. Maybe it stops them using up great swathes of their stand-up material that they're still touring/trying to shift on DVD. But they're all having a crack at it, and they're all shit. Stephen K. Amos - perfectly nice fellow, I'm sure, but his show looked like a Lenny Henry series from the early '80s. Surely the BBC's comedy commissioner didn't really say, 'Ooh, you're not white, therefore you have to have quite a few sketches where you dress up as your own mum?' Channel 4's new offering is some woman called Morgana (ever heard of her? No, me neither; was slightly expecting the screechy witch from the Kevin Costner Robin Hood film trying out a Derren Brown-influenced prediction show). Her schtick seems to be funny wigs and googly glasses for each character. Because people with chronically bad eyesight and frizzy hair are always hilarious.
But Frankie really wins all the awards for this category hands down. I used to think he was deeply unpleasant but occasionally very funny on Mock the Week. Then he sacked one of my friends, who was supposed to be doing the PR for his mystifyingly popular book, on the basis of a typo in an email. Then Channel 4 give him a bucket of cash to make offensive stand-up jokes (TM the Daily Mail), interspersed with terrible sketches. The brief for which appears to have been: make them 3 times as long as they need to be, with no punchlines, and referencing TV shows and films that are at least fifteen years old. With terrible wigs. And no acting ability. Which are also offensive. In the one I saw, the sketches were based around Knight Rider and The Green Mile. It's a much debated question - what constitutes offence in comedy, and whether any subject is off-limits - but the basics for me are always, 'do I laugh, and then have a bit of a guilty intake of breath, or do I just think, "bloody hell, that's offensive, and it's not even funny".'
Let's hope one of Frankie's New Year's resolutions is to give it all up, as he keeps threatening to, and then I'll have another VAT-free pleasure to add to my list.
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