Up and At Em

I have never been a big fan of New Years resolutions – I make and fail my promises on a non-seasonal basis. But this year, my self-improvement urges  surfaced simultaneously with the chiming of the midnight bells, popping of corks and fireworks. My resolutions, as ever, are:

- come up with a savings plan that does not hinge on an increased second hand value of shoes,
- shape up, because age is not doing me any favors,

Part of why I though, at this specific time, that the time for lasting change might have arrived, was that I, in contrast to my usual early January post-shag-with-wrong-guy-champagne-hangover-and-fag-ends-in-kitchen-sink-angst,
am in a setting very conductive to resolving on, and sticking to, great things.

Sitting at cottage window, watching the snow settle yet again, over snow already settled, eating an orange and feeling a nice taught pull at calf muscles – yesterdays skiing – it is easy to feel calm, serene and full of good intentions. No shoes at present within reach of my plastic, and there are no tubs of ice-cream in the fridge. Or so I thought – but it was a treacherously weak peace, and I broke it, in folly.

I was bold, I was careless: I thought I was safe, and thus I slipped, fell, wings burnt by the sun. Instead of taking another walk through wintery woods, or another tumble on the ice (the Better Man is teaching me to skate: there will be a slap-stick and possibly photographically illustrated post coming shortly), instead of sitting still in the boat, or as it were, reading something inspirational about thin French women and their cigarettes, I thought I could go online.

It started out good, as I found an article on Madonnas personal trainer. Her firm-as-triceps belief that no woman not shaped “like a teeny tiny ballerina” can be considered attractive, nor morally upstanding, installed me with a very healthy dosis of self-loathing and coropral disgust.

Unfortunately, while scrolling, my eye was caught by some very tempting recipes over at the Guardian. There were a type of drop scones with bacon and cheddar that it would be a crime not to try. There was also a recipe for a kind of trifle, that mixed chocolate and cherries, I think, with some kind of booze: but I should not be writing about this, better not mention the devil.

Taking refuge in my in-box, I found a newsletter on Detoxing that seems doable, but also, unfortunately, an alert of an online sale, which I had to just browse very quickly, and where there was a deep-royal purple satin pump that just…called to me. And also a suede Diane von Furstenberg boot, same chocolate colour as the trifle…

I shook my head hard, and closing, firmly, window after window, I went over to a site that administers home deliveries of seasonal greens. At 20 Euro a pop, you get a basket full of swedes, turnips, cabbages, carrots…ferried to your door: unavoidable, a constant stern reminder.

The Better Man, however, was not impressed with this, and told me in no uncertain terms that he does not, ever, see the beauty of celery – it pales in comparison to the beauty of the filet mignon.

Wounded, faltering, but soldiering on, searching frantically now for something to bring me back on track, I took instead a final punch:  a lengthy NYTimes piece,  scientifically proving the impossibility of changing for the better.

At the very moment of reading, was brought, with deus-ex-machina timing and precision, a newly baked loaf of white bread from the oven. A glass of wine was offered over by the fire. And I, but human and frail, watched the shortest New Years resolution yet down the drain.

But soon it’ll be January 8th, as good a date as any, for starting again.

Ring Out Old Shapes

I enjoy my work very much. But even Sisyphus probably found time for a quick ciggie in the afternoon. At four, I need to pour myself a cup of coffee space out for a bit. Otherwise I get cranky, and you don’t want that, seeing as sarcastic-self-righteous-bitch is my sunny side. 

 

 

Unfortunately, four o’ clock seems to be a general break time in my office. Which means that my fifteen minutes of oblivion are often interrupted by colleagues wanting to chat. As a shield against anecdotes about children’s parkas or neighbourhood watch politics (aka socializing) I have developed a ruse: staying in front of computer and pretending to be busy working. While really, I head over to the Sartorialist and FUG for a daily dosis of escapism.

 

 

These two particular sites are perfect for two reasons. First off, they let you gawk at pretty people doing petty things in pretty clothes. Secondly, all the images of perfectly tanned and toned bodies wrapped in the most minimal of sequined or gauzy sheets put an effective block on any coffee-related snacking. Such as muffins, crackers, or those delicious little toffees they sell in the cafeteria on the first floor (or so I have heard).

 

Unfortunately, the line between helpful sugar deterrent and battering ram against self-confidence is a thin (lucky bastard) one. After a weekend spent listening to the Better Man raving about the beauty of elder skinny sister and a young Pamela Anderson respectively (in all fairness, he did add as an afterthought “I do love you all the same”) – the pictures of hollow-cheeked Sienna Millers, Kiera Knightlys et al threw me into a bit of an early new years fervor. You know, the way you feel January 1 – broke, bloated and blue.

 

 

Now, as most of my female readers will know, feeling broke and bloated and blue is usually the start of a 24-48 hour all fruit but fruitless diet, after which the acute memory of whatever horrible vacation pic or old-boyfriend sighting that catapulted you into a frenzied state of half-a-cup of slimfast and skinless chicken has faded from your mind and been replaced with the smells of Bolognese from the office canteen.

 

 

But, this time, I think I have the upper hand. Heartbreak and repugnance at self are transient emotions and will only only help you shred so many pounds. A good solid case of food poisoning however, will broker no arguments. And tonight, I will be stuffing sausages. Given the 50-50 odds of them turning out edible, I think the chances of slimming down to a size zero before the lake freezes over are excellent. 

 

Oh, and hopefully you all caught the Tennyson reference – proof that though I may not be skinny, I do know my 19th centrury imperialistic poet laureates.

Always, In My Fashion

Once upon a time a long, long time ago and up until latish last night, I believed in the fairytale of being Myself, and reliant on self only. I believed that morally impeccable disorders such as honesty and self-sufficiency were the stuff that would catch Prince Dreamy’s eye.

I place the blame on Valiant and Strogoff, Crusoe and Cristo. On those firm souls that crowded the pages of my childhood literacy. Sure, they were men of iron. I’m willing to bet their shoulders were broad and their arms ditto; that the muddy boots of seven miles were of the latest fashion. But their physical accoutrements weren’t their claim to fame. Their dominance lay in their steely wills and their – sometimes frankly fanatical – autonomy.

Their attraction lay in the camp of psyche, rather than the physical. And somewhere I, travelling alongside them into the heart of darkness, must have confused matters and pitched alongside theirs. Little knowing, or wanting to admit, that what makes the magnetism of an upright adventurer is perhaps, not, what makes the charms of the bendy willow woman.

I believed that a moral compass was the ethically superior equivalent of a pencil skirt. That aloof disdain of approval would trump raven locks. That stalwart individualism - and hang the consequences – would be a match for the apple hue of an untainted cheek. In short – that skin and skin-tight would not be the determining factors in the love story this poet’s dreamed of.

Or even, that the lack of them would proof its worth. For hidden somewhere deep inside, was the assumption that a love that is love through messy hair and all would be at least, if not supreme, then unconditional. And thus, by proxy, safe.

Safe but for the snag of me being absolutely horrid when naturesque.

When myself my whimsy take me, I act on intuition, and take off on slightest provocation. When myself I am always 5 k over the limit, and probably wrapped in fur and pink sneakers. When myself I change my mind at last minute, spend disproportionate amounts of time with nose in book, sit around the office till 10 at night, and eat most home meals in bed. When myself I unbutton another button and keep the balcony door open all night and always take the train. Unlike the DIY strong bows of the classics, I when myself, do not approach heroic, and land very far from fetching.

Ironically, parallel with my need for personal laissez-faire, I have a very hard time accepting a beau in a state of reveal. Not only do I demand that they live up to quite exacting standards of professional hunger, good tweeds and calloused hands. I also prefer their minds semi-censored, reality lightly salted, tenderized, or to put it plainly: pimped.

I do not want a complete lack of filters – I want the edited version. PG 13. I want them to conduct their reviews of my sadly lacking presence with none of the cutting edge of true valuation.

But The Better Man, he tells it like it is(ish). Forget about pedestals and sweet nothings in my ears. He is a realist, and makes sure I know he is acutely aware of my limitations. Alors, last night things came to a bit of a head. He was doggedly determined not to give in to my walking on the soda-pop side of life – I was terrier-like in my belief that I should be able to hang consequences, without righteous commentary. In short: I wanted to be able to go three days without a brush, but still be told that my tresses were smoothly spun silk in his hands.

But it turns out the terrier is a lesser dog than the archetypal no-brand one: he won. For as The Better Man snored, I pondered.

At first, I felt very much like the wicked stepmother – asking the mirror for a compliment and getting all the wrong truths back. I was pretty certain that I would then be in my full right to throw a rock at the offending piece of furniture. But then, stranger than fiction, I searched my soul on a deeper than fairies level. And realised:

I do not really want someone fetched by that which should make retch. I do not want someone who’ll settle, who’ll overlook, or look the other way, or close his eyes – all in deference to the true me. I am not after love unconditional any longer. I am after the race and the thrill of beating expectation. So maybe someone who demands a modicum of false isn’t such a bad deal.

For oh, if I were to be slightly false… I would think before I speak. I would get up for a run in the mornings. I would try to exercise my sense of humour (it IS in there, I know). I would shrug things off and I would wrinkle up my forehead and listen carefully. I would keep my promises and I would catch my breath and iron my shirts. I would mind my intake and up my hair. Then perhaps I would deserve the happy ending. And after all, if I learnt one thing from those glorious men, it’s that a treasure deserved is twice as shiny.

When the alarm went off and I got into my running shoes and jogged along the docks, in the mist.

Oh yes, and thanking this piece, in Swedish, for inspiration.

Magic Pants

Last night, the friend I was supposed to meet came down with some rare and exotic exploding head disease, completely incapacitated from the thrumming and strumming behind his temples, leaving me with a clear schedule. Naturally, my first instinct was to go shopping. 

Winding my way through town I ran my usual course of food, reading, and clothing. First, stopping to pick up some venison thyme sausages and ripe tomatoes, then a slim volume called The Uncommon Reader, and finally, trying on some very sleek purple suede heels, discarding them as wrong height. Then, just as I was about to turn my nose homeward, I came upon a store I would normally never have entered: sportswear.

I may have taken to sports lately, but that doesn’t mean I have taken to wearing those tight lycra things and hooded tops that all the girls wear at the sportsclub. I haven’t even got a pair of proper, to the purpose, trainers: instead I do my daily repentance wearing some old street sneakers, a pair of ratty depressed looking sweatpants and whatever moderately stretchy top is currently washed.

Because lets face it: until you are one of them people in a tight fit and a band round your hair, you aren’t really a part of the whole health culture. I mean, it is sort of like showing up at masons without your…whatever it is they wear, at regiment in slacks and deck-shoes; or, for that matter, at a comp.litt. class in a pink Minne Mouse jacket (have done, almost failed entire semester). And I guess up until now, I haven’t really been willing to embrace this whole new spandex aspect of my personality: though I wear much black, it is rather of a polo- or scoop-neck variety than the cling-film variety used by the fit.  

But as I gazed up at the illuminated shop window, the mannequins all clad in efficient, steamlining material, chunky comfortable shoes on feet and a determined glint in their vacant eyes, I felt a pull. Unable to resist the combined influences of shapely legs and the SALE sign, I went in. In a way, it was very much like I image a real brain-wash would be: a swirl of pumping music, hot red walls, and gladiator style attendants. When I found myself on the street again, I was considerably poorer and carrying some suspiciously large looking bags.

At home, I ate the sausage and the tomatoes and read the book - a glimmering little bit of fancy, perfectly balanced. And then, with a feeling almost of dread, I opened the sportsbag and looked at what I had gotten away with: some proper pants, a pair of running shoes, a vest: all deliciously soft, flattering, and demanding. Because with purchases like that, I had burned the last bridges to my old life of nothing-much-doing. Trying them on I felt uplifted, but also taken over, in uniform, almost: the clothes stated certain things about me, that I had now better fulfill.

And what better way than by starting the morning at the gym? Yes, you heard me right, at 8 this morning I was there, changed inwards and outwards and ready for the treadmill. I did a twenty minute run, and then the weightlifting machines; all of it passing quickly, almost effortlessly: watching myself in the mirror and seeing someone who belonged on those contraptions, at home in all the dank air and tinny music.

The feeling grew even stronger, later, in the changing rooms, as I stood as one in the military line before the mirrors, applying mascara at the exact same pace as the ten other women in there. We brushed our hair, we perfumed our necks, we picked some lint from our blazers, we pushed the pearls through our lobes, we smacked our lips at ourselves, glossy, all as one, supremely synchronized swim team. We were all filled with the same glorious feeling of being slightly better than all them people outside the doors to the gym, all those people who eat their bagels without doing their run, all those people who take time to read the paper and have an extra cup of tea instead of stretching…all those people, quite frankly, who used to be me.

But then I noticed something: when we were all patched up and ready to go, we didn’t look the same anymore. There was a banker type and a student type, a mother type and a lady who’s next serious appointment must have been lunch: there were the tan skinnies with super tight jeans and the coiffed and suited, there was an outdoorsy type with a scrubbed face and a back-pack and then there was me: back in black and with Aspects of the Novel safely tucked in my bag, between the water-bottle and my new trainers.

And I suppose the finishing line should be something about books and their covers…

Body Con

You know how you can go for long periods of time and forget all about one aspect of life, chasing after some other? And how, if you do that for a while, the neglected bit will suddenly and rudely reassert its importance? For my friend Hanna and me, such has been the case with our physiques. Let me recap:

Since leaving uni three years ago we have both been working like mad to crawl up the very slippery ladder that is professional success. But that has been it as regards physical effort. There have been late coffee-fuelled nights, early coffeefuelled mornings, short coffee-fuelled lunches, and in between, scarce fresh air and a non-stop supply of chocolate to soak up some of the caffeine and hold body and mind together. Needless to say, the time for exercise has not been found.

Every now and then, our bodies have given us hints of needing a break: severe muscular pains in the power-pointing arm, ulcers popping up like mushrooms in rainy weather, grey pasty skin and elbows the colour of poppies, raw from propping on desk. But our response has been only to shrug – wincing while in motion – readjust our reading glasses and get on with the show. That is, until a recent crisis threw a stark and unavoidable, changing-room-in-bikini-season type light on the shambles we have made of our earthly husks. 

For me, somewhat resigned to the flabby lumps that have taken up residence on my body, weight wasn’t the main issue. Instead, it was a short man that broke the camels back. (No midget, mind, but considerably less than my normal prerequisite of 1.80). Our relationship was a pain in the neck, literally, since in an effort to fit myself on his horizon, I slumped, slouched and got all crooked. After seven months of foreshortening, when it ended, the pain was more of the lower spine than any red and pumping organ.

For Hanna, though, accustomed to slimness, the epiphany came when looking in the mirror and no longer finding the sleek Korean girl that used to look back at her – a more motherly version had taken her place, a motherly version from hell, who was holding up her old size four jeans and laughing evilly. 

Alas, bent and broken, heavy and panting, with Quasimodo shoulders and straining zippers, we had a crisis summit. Things and thighs had reached a state, we agreed, that could no longer be ignored. The time had come to get fit. And by doing the one thing we do know how: working. After all, how much difference could there be between long hours crouched over a lap-top and working out with stomach crunches?

Looking back now, what amuses me the most is that we thought that getting fit would feel good. For while I suppose that getting into my old clothes is pleasing, and being able to sit up straight is fun, feeling good is no longer on the map. What characterises our lives nowadays is pain: imminent, pervading, upcoming, momentous.

It started, I guess, with my eight day bicycle extravaganza. But through that ten-hour a day uphill pedalling the discomfort was located mainly in one place: my bottom. Now, through a combination of gym equipments and sadistic coaches, all  my limbs hurt equally and insistent.

Monday it was something torturous, a class called simply “Muscle”. A toned, bronzed woman in a shocking pink top shouted at us for an hour, while making us assail our bodies with a varity or rubber ropes, metal rods and also the more simplistic, evil-incarnate, lunges. Last night, “Body-combat” was not so much combat with an external, as against an internal, enemy: wrestling our poor shaking bodies through a mine-field of short jabs, toppling kicks, knee-ups and capueira double-takes. And am already feeling the fear of tomorrows “step-up”: swirling and twirling and jumping though an avalanch-esque and ever increasing stream of sobbing legs, fisted hands and desperate counting. 

So in short: the halycon days of lounging on a sofa are no more. Instead, there is suffering, pain, and round-house kicks. And here is the kicker: I am loving it. For just as my mind perfers a hectic schedule and an all night-work session to slow days and long lunches, it seems my body enjoys the sore, the tender, and the stiff.

Making the point that a moderate streak of masochism will get you places.

The Devil Is a Good Egg

Speak of the devil. Yesterday I claimed that my one current vice is gossip. Oh, if it were only still true.

This morning I woke with the sun in my face. I went through my usual morning routine of stretching “luxuriously” on the fold-out, and then dozing of again to confused dreams of picking blueberries. Then next time I woke it was to an unfamiliar grumbling. A deep, Barry White rumble. An empty stomach. I opened my eyes and thought of eggs.

Now, for those of you following my progress carefully, you know that eggs are not to be had at the moment. Nor are big frosted pitchers of orange juice, or buttery slices of toast. I am on a diet. No divinity of omelet, at the moment, for me.

Getting up, I took a cold shower and tried to think of other things. But sitting down at breakfast, crunching on the morning papers and cucumber on crisp bread, I kept having disturbing images of softly yielding yolks and sunny sides up, rolls and honey. Being a firm believer in the healing powers of fresh air, I threw on some random clothes and left the building.

Well, while I am sure Jesus got plenty of fresh air while in the desert, I am not sure either of us found it any proper help. The walk to work has given me a new understanding of the plight of men. I read somewhere that they think of sex every five seconds – I saw nothing but breakfast on my way.

The cupola were all muffin, the sun lay on the gilded lettering of the Grand Hotel like an invitation to Benedict, and the white hulled ships at the quay were definitely poached. I hurried on, closing my mind to the Florentine green of parks and the soft boiled honking of the morning traffic, crossing from sidewalk to sidewalk in a desperate attempt to stay out of the jurisdiction of the many boutique bakeries that lined the path: looking into through glistening windows I saw a veritable snake pit of brioche and scone, and even had a particularly explicit glimpse of a croissant.

Oscar Wilde said the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield. Well, I refuse, and instead choose to fight it by yielding to another. In the fight for a waist (like Jesus for a soul) I take no prisoners. Alas, I have poured such abusive quantities of coffee down my throat that I am left slightly shaking, queasy and with a budding ulcer on the cross. But with no room for even a slice of cheddar.

Cravings

I am not myself. Looking in the mirror I can actually see the hormones bubbling away under the skin, leaving me prone to weird bursts of feeling and need. Am suspecting fresh breakups are a bit like pregnancies, all dirty hair and new beginnings. And therefor, just like a pregnant lady, I get to indulge my every whim.

Cravings are, I guess by nature, odd. I have a friend who was built entirely from tart green apples, and a woman I know has spent the last three months of her term eating plenty of, and only, pasteurised Camembert. Me? I gossip.

Normally in times of crisis, hangover or just plain Tuesday, I go running for the saltcellar. I am not a big fan of sweets or the sweet, much prefer the salty, so much in fact, that I have been known to eat spoons of salt the way a small kid would eat jam, stealthily and in great gulps. But right now it doesn’t tempt me. I have to lure myself into eating. And the fast and the crappy, my usual main suppliers of the white glory, are completely of the table. Only the best of fresh stawberries, endangered species of fish and the occasional special import yoghurt pass my lips. It is quite an expensive habit, and I sort of wish I’d hawked the ring to fund this sudden need for new potatoes. It is a good thing then, that my true obession is free, barring phonebills, which will be picked up by boss (thank you!).

I am not naturally reserved. That is why I am good at my job…But lately, the talking has spun completely out of control. I have now run out of close girl friends and family and am hitting a new market for gabbing away: Collegues and old bosses, close friends and first loves, estranged exes and loose aquaintances…all men.

And it is great! They do not ask how I feel. They do not tell me I’ll be ok. They do not commisserate. They just let me talk - probably with one eye on the TV - to chatt, to vent and just plain stab people in the back with words. Catty comments, wordpuns, blather and the occasional coherent sentence: this is the ultimate binge.

Mostly, they give such great feed-back, the little darlings. In the same time it would have taken a woman to feed me some litter about growth and (a good thing, though) the number of a new manicurist, this little safari in man-speak has yielded the recipie for a drink called Dirty Dog, deep insight into the positionings of the Swedish offensive in football and a really, really funny story ’bout a goat.

So this is where I’ll be. Phone clamped to one ear and an abandoned plate of berries on the table. Two-in-the-morning whispering, lunchtime joking, quick in the taxi check-ups, MSN and lengthy mails. It is painfree, fun, and best of all – it doesn’t clog your arteries.

Heatwave

This spring has been happily freed from the normal sun-size panic. A meeting with my skin doctor, who frowned and muttered “non-existent” re: my bodys ability to handle the rays, has given me the perfect excuse to don a tunic and an icecream and get merrily on. I am medically barred from exposing myself.

And also. This relationships deal. No one ever told me how utterly detrimental it is to ones outline. It seems as though those rosy tinted glasses that makes you overlook the occiasional flaws of your loved one also makes you overlook you own, slightly more persistent flaws. Like the tendecy to eat chocolates. In plural.

However. There has been a slight adjustment of those pink specs. A recent bout of hot air, hot sun and a hay-fever that knows no bounds has  made me realise, what with the massive onslaught of early summer weddings and the digging out of flip flops and last years linnen, that the season of skimming fabrics and tank tops is here. And my waistline is not. And also, that relationships, while good in their own way, should never be allowed to take the place of your favourite jeans.

Alas, there is but one thing to do. Intensive downsizing. Break out the sushi and the salads, the vats of iced coffee and the midday smoothies. Holidays are a month away. I shall keep you posted.