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.