58 days later…
After last week’s impromptu media round up (and the BBC Wales programme mentioned previously was broadcast today at 1pm; I cannot comment on it yet, since one o’clock is far too early to attempt anything serious on a Sunday, and it is available on iPlayer here for anyone who would like to listen). I have decided this week on a similar theme following an increasing number of curious enquiries; it is now two months since I joined the gym and am still to be found there often happily swimming, lying around in the steam room and occasionally actually exercising (I have this week added upper body weights and managed to at least get on the waiting list for Zumba).
So, have I lost lots of weight? No, well a little, but nothing significant. However I have gone from a borderline 10-12 in skirts to a definite 10, and am noticeably slimmer of face, firmer of arm and flatter of belly (this last will be rectified at least temporarily in an hour or so, when the roast chicken and dauphinois potatoes come out of the oven). My bra size is reassuringly unchanged, and whilst I am obviously never going to have the improbably perky and heavenward-facing frontage of an eighteen year old, they are firm, nicely round, and holding up very well. All in all, the gym gets the thumbs up – and not forgetting the sauna, steam room and pool which daily present me with an agonising quandary when forced to decide whether I can really be bothered to wash my hair AGAIN.
I have come to the conclusion that a persons weight is really just another numerical value that means no more in a positive or negative sense than one’s height; at the age of twenty four I was working three jobs and a sixty – eighty hour week was far from uncommon – I remember I weighed around seven stone and had to buy ‘bottoms’ either in Tammy Girl (for age eleven) or TopShop because it was the only place that sold a size 4 (aka the much-discussed US size zero). I have resolutely never looked or felt worse in my life, and if I had a photograph from then I would post it – even the bra went down to a miserly D cup, which as many of you know from experience, is not like me at all. Three stone heavier and thirteen years on I do not believe I have ever looked better, and the only things I really miss are my lovely blonde hair (and I haven’t forgotten the maintenance involved in platinum-dom, which was the bane of my life) and the ability to go out straight from work at midnightish, stay out until four am and get up again for Other Work at seven.
I still can’t run anywhere and will not be observed manfully jogging around Marine Drive in the fresh morning air, but I can cover 2km each on the rowing machine and the hillclimbing thing, and can do a couple of dozen incline sit ups without fainting or crying. Occasionally I walk calmly but briskly on the treadmill and watch CBBC, or sit towel-wrapped on a recliner glaring fiercely at people who have taken the newspapers into the steam room (Daily Mail aside; the steam room is far too good for it). And my enduring favourite pastime of people-watching can run riot, since the oddly artificial setting offers ample opportunity to indulge my fascination with the human form as it appears in every possible combination of size and shape, and I have spent many a happy hour admiring the way that necks join shoulders, knees and ankles balance and support, and most of all the lovely dimples just above a nice plump bottom where one might rest one’s cheek after a picnic.
But I digress. Suffice to say, I am not thinking of cancelling my membership any time soon, although the on and off dreadful weather has tempted me to hibernate comfortably indoors for the duration of the week and I suspect that I will be glad of the place’s convenient location over the coming months. Fortunately, the last seven days have been inordinately busy and I ought to apologise for those who were unavoidably turned away; I have not only met some delightful new callers but welcomed some favourite returnees and the apartment is looking like a combination of a Chinese laundry and the Chelsea Flower Show, should it ever relocate to the North Yorkshire coast. This coming week I will be preparing for my Jersey trip and hopefully organising a handful of new pictures by way of refreshment if time allows, but since the emails are again coming in thick and fast I shouldn’t be surprised if it does not. London availability is also going fast and embryonic plans for its successor are already in the making (posssibly accompanied by a quick dash to Paris fore or aft) and the first week of December is looking promising.
For tonight though, X Factor and comfort food beckons. Plenty to do, but every now and again the world can wait…
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