Arise Lady MILF

So the NHS (gawd bless it in all its Olympic beauty) decrees that once a person hits 40, it is time for an MOT.  This is the age where one effectively has 'franchis le Rubicon' in wellness terms.  The point at which the body becomes a rebel without a cause.  A life-long student at the school of 'ignorance is bliss' I fell for the moody mystique of this state, lulled as it were, by the unfathomable nihilism, riding without a helmet - if you will.

I blame vanity.  See had I not gone to see the doc about my gunt - a sort of belly bingo wing - in the hope that it was a straight-forward hernia, I would still be galavanting about hand in rock-steady hand with the delusion that nothing is my fault and that I still look good on the dancefloor.

The doctor could barely hide his disdain that a loosely educated person would waste precious doctoring time with a matter of such frippery when there were so many other people with self-inflicted chronic conditions to patronise (and so little time).  He promptly informed that it was not surgery I required but a sturdy regime of diet and exercise. 

"But I do yoga every day,"  I protested.  "And I deprive myself of just about anything that's truly worth eating."  I concluded with the conviction of someone who is obviously lying.  So there it was.  The truth about me and my gunt. Inwardly irritated (but somewhat appeased that the diet would have to wait until after the Pearl Jam concert I was going to that evening) I beat a path for the door.  But before I could defiantly  flounce out, Doc reached for the salt (to rub into the wound)..."Miss? I notice you are 40 (choke) and we do recommend you get some bloodwork done, just to make sure everything else is ok.  It's free." (GAHHhhh).\

So now not only am I fat, I'm also old...and apparently a cheapskate.  You. Go. Too. Far. Sir.

However, I had heard that giving blood often led to weight loss.  I was in.  And well, it was free (ok so he got that bit right about me). 

Two weeks later...turns out I have cholesterol.  See - nothing.  NOTHING good ever comes of visiting the doctor's surgery. Now I have it confirmed and on record that I am old, fat and officially on my way out.  I believe this is what is known as a "wake-up" call.

As much as I love yoga - I am now forced to do something more "aerobic".  Not one to do things by halves (unless it's eating Bounty bars, Twixs, Twirls or anything that comes in two pieces) I have started spinning classes which I can tell you is not for the faint-hearted and may well speed up "the end" faster than any bacon sandwich, pint and fag ever could.

I have however made it to 4 classes in the last two weeks and while the gunt remains, I'm not getting younger (strangely - how can that be?) I do nonetheless reckon I'm back in the running for  a MILFhood.

Dingle Dongle

Week one at the new place in the new role with the new boss and the new routine.  All I can say is...I made it. 

Let me rewind a little by way of contextualising what comes next by telling you what happened before.  By some "rainman" like miracle calculation, I managed to coincide my last day at the old place with the office summer party.  The repercussions of a most re-donku-lous performance at said party left me incapacitated and unable to do anything more than watch TV at a 90 degree angle the whole weekend that followed.  Not the best way to prepare for Day 1 at a new job.  In my defence the booze was free and actually it took a lot less to get this way than it once did.  A small underestimation of what the body at 40 really thinks of binge drinking.  I have not touched a drop since and I intend for this to be the status quo going forward.

So come last Monday, I was not really in any condition to endure an hour and a half commute into Slough where this job is based.  To top it all off, and of course by way of renal revenge - I woke up with not one but two cold sores.   My hair was all wrong, my belly distended from all the alcohol sugar and motivation was on the floor.  Way to set the tone for the week.  Let's see, I spent that first day f-ing up all the IT systems.  The second getting them fixed and the third wondering if I'd made the right decision.  But by the fourth day, I had an epiphany because despite feeling and looking like a cow had pooped me out and the fact the tubes and trains had all got together to orchestrate delays and cancellations every single day last week  (my hair was noticeably thinner by Thursday) I noticed that all had been forgotten by mid-morning.  I came to the conclusion that the job rocks out with its BLEEP out.  And that's because not only is it one juicy brief - it's a 21st century work environment.

Each day whether I arrive at 9 or 10 no-one bats an eyelid.  The boss puts it another way - work is something you do not somewhere you go. We are equipped to work from the public toilets at Paddington if we so wish.  I have secure ID, an i-phone, laptop, free wi-fi and when I can't get wi-fi I have a Dongle. Double edge sword?  I mean if you're 'always-on' could you fall into the habit of never switching off?  I'll let you know. 

For now...I've had 2 emails all weekend...I think that's pretty good going.  Remind me to re-read this when the going gets a little tough!

A lot to answer for...

I took this picture a few weeks ago on holiday with The Silverback and The Lish; First family get-away since last summer.

Beautiful no? Awesome in fact.  Where could this be? The Amalfi Coast?  One of the Ionian Islands? Or perhaps Sardinia? This is in fact a shot from the hotel room balcony of the bay in Magalluf, Mallorca - better known as Shagalluf. A well deserved eponym.
Believe it or not and I wouldn't blame you for thinking I'd finally gone out of my beautiful (in the Russell Crowe sense) mind - delusional from all the London rain - I'm really telling you the truth - this picture was taken in Magalluf.  All the sadder then to know that greed allowed the Mallorcan to let this happen to his island...



...which in turn has done this to the beaches along the south - and I don't mean these particular girls have anything directly to do with it - but when you let your home become a party island and take no real action against those who will go just that step too far, you are also saying it's ok to do this....


And so they do.  Swimming in the sea in Magalluf, at least when we were there, was not a real option well not if you value your skin.  I may as well have jumped into a water treatment centre before the filtering stage.  When every underwater brush of the calf is caused by a plastic bag or god only knows what (I really don't want to) it was enough to send gagging back to the towel .

I had to curb The Lish and The Silverback from going in too often for fear they'd develop some nasty-assed stomach condition. Although I did try not to think about the state of the sea and beaches as I meditated to this beautiful view every morning - it was impossible almost impossible, certainly heartbreaking.

Were it not for this, Magalluf could easily stand shoulder to shoulder with the natural delights offered by Kefalonia and Capri.  Instead, I think The Silverback said it best after the first night out when we were naive enough to attempt a quiet evening stroll: "Yep. I don't think I'll be leaving the hotel after 6pm for the rest of the week".  Hear Hear.

But let's end on a note of gratitude that I was able to spend some quality R&R time with my little sea cucumber and The CFO.