Tuesday, 7 July 2009

"If you can swallow it without chewing, it's a drink"

Well tomorrow will be my first week anniversary of living my life according to all the advice in July’s issue of Marie Claire. I’d have a drink, but it’s the colonic tomorrow and I’m not allowed *groan*

I’m doing Ok though, there have been a couple of slip ups , such as forgetting a couple of mornings to massage with the cellulite brush, and a couple of evenings forgetting to massage my feet for 20 seconds before bed. I seem to be a bit rubbish at the old self massaging, it’s a fairly new concept to me!

Then there is the pill popping. According to the tub, I should be taking Spirulina 3 times a day. I’m managing an average of 2 a day, both times freaking out my boss as in order to get the pill down my neck I have to throw my head back and shake it from side to side at my desk – which makes me look nothing less than completely mental.

She was even more worried yesterday when she opened my calendar, popping her head round the side of her monitor with a concerned face.

“Are you Ok?”
“Yeah why?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah just busy, why?”
“Only I’ve just opened your calendar”
“And at the end of the day, you have a repeated entry that says ‘Deep Breath and Smile”
“Oh – err, yeah, that’s err to help my endorphins apparently”
“What ARE you on about?”
“Um – I read it on an Orbit advertorial in Marie Claire, it says to take a deep breath and smile at the end of every day to release endorphins”

At this point she looked satisfied that A) I wasn’t about to hand in my notice and B) I was stranger than she had first thought. So popped her head back round to carry on with her work.

I haven’t told anyone I work with about this blog, I figured I need a kind of control group. A group of people that may comment on, or notice changes without knowing about them before hand and looking out for them. Also, because I think they may think I’ve completely lost it, and have to see them for the majority of my waking week.

The not eating after 7 thing is going OK. I did have some grapes about 10 last night by mistake, but felt it didn’t warrant me going out into the garden and beating myself with birch twigs or anything drastic to right the worng. It was fruit after all. Sunday was a bit of test though.

Husband decided last minute to organise a BBQ. What time did he arrange for this to start?? F*cking 7PM. So I powered down a few mini pitas filled with celery, avocado and humus, whilst the sweet smoky smell of the BBQ started to waft through the house.

Kingsize and his lovely lady friend Systems arrived, at which point I had conceded that if I couldn’t eat, I’d just get heroically pissed. I had to literally distract myself in the kitchen, tidying and cooking my dinners for this week to avoid staring longingly at their plates. I am turning into that woman, you know the one, that woman in the office that announces they are on a diet. The Same woman that then makes you feel really uncomfortable when you dare to enjoy a bit of Birthday cake that someone may have brought in to share. The one that stares at you, and talks about you eating the cake, and how much she wants’ the cake… until you feel like sticking said cake in her face.

When everyone finished, Systems announced she had brought the ingredients to make desert. As I started to protest, she turned and delivered a pearl of wisdom that I think may save me while I am adhering to this 7pm food curfew.

“If you can get it down your neck without chewing… it’s a drink”

For this, I love you Systems – and she handed me a big bowl of Eaton mess, which I “drank”. Then, revisited the remains throughout the evening “sipping”.

Yesterday was more interval training, my legs burned, my throat burned, I think twice is enough to decide I HATE interval training! But unfortunately as tomorrow is colonic day, I have to get up early and go out on my bike before work.

Yesterday I also wore my hue pink top, which in theory should have looked enchanting; if I was frolicking around on a beach at sunset, with romantic wavy hair and pout as per Marie Claire’s fashion story. The reality was stomping around the office, stressed out due being on a deadline. I was also wearing a particularly ill fitting bra which was trying with admirable tenacity to pop up and wrap itself round my throat all day.

“I won’t make that mistake today!” Was my first thought this morning. A white shirt and jeans – what possible fashion faux par can I possibly achieve in a white shirt and jeans? Well.. why don’t you ask the poor security guard who I stood talking to this morning for 5 minutes, with the button of my shirt undone directly across my boobs. Bra out, Tatty Divine (Thanks Stylist) name necklace on back to front and bloody foot soak on my jeans, possibly leaving him with the opinion that “That ydoJ is a bit of floozy”

The fashion faux par didn’t end there.
At lunch I went to see if I could pick up some of the free Aveda Shampoo in Kendals, with a voucher published in the August issue of the Magazine. They had run out unfortunately, only having enough for the first 100 people to turn up. Didn’t these eager beavers know my devotion to the cause? I was miffed so thought I’d have a wonder around the sale.

Walking round the shoe department, I was trying to decide the line a shoe had to cross before it became a strappy “Shoob" (shoe-boot apparently) rather than a strappy sandal. I failed to notice, that whilst on my little quest for the shoob truth, the buckle on my bag had hooked onto a fancy lace up stiletto - and I was wondering around the store like some really blatant one footed shop lifter.

The only way I know how to deal with this sort of situation, I learned at college as a defiant teen. I accidentally weed on the straps of my dickies dungarees. I hadn’t noticed when I sat down to pee that the straps had sneakily dangled into the bowl, the loo was crowded and I was late for a lesson – so what do you do in that situation? You march out people, with your head held high, fling the piss ridden straps into the sink and stare at everyone around you daring them to even smirk at the situation whilst you wash them off. Be blatant, act as if what you are doing is perfectly normal and everyone else is weird for even taking note of it. They just might believe you.

So that’s what I did, striding back to the shoe department, with shoe in hand, glaring at the assistant, daring her to even acknowledge I’d taken a left Stiletto for a tour of the clothes concessions.

Then flushed red and ran away, like the fool I was back to work. I spent the rest of the afternoon not wanting to move in case I managed to utilise any other part of my clothing to embarrass myself.