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Friday, August 9, 2013

With My Friends Who Needs Enemies?

“Pinky… look!” 

Kaz had one immaculately groomed eyebrow raised and was staring at my mid-section. We were in the school staffroom and I paused with my fork of tuna salad midway to my mouth.

“Wha..?” I responded with a gob full of half-chewed food.

“You’re showing a bit much luv,” Kaz grimaced and pointed at my stomach.

My shrunk-in-the-wash, pre-shrunk shirt had worked its evil way up my midriff and a roll of whitish and gleaming stomach fat was on display for all and sundry to relish.

“It’s mah belly!” I laughed, squeezing it in my fist.

“Look! You’re hanging out everywhere!” jibed Emmsie, pointing out the hip fat, struggling like a cream-coloured Labrador puppy attempting an escape from the back of my pants.

SHUT UP!” I cried out piteously. “I can’t help it! It’s the hormones! I don’t eat anything except salad… I powerwalk… what the hell else can I do? It’s middle-aged spread!”

“It couldn’t be anything to do with the amount of wine you drink could it, Pinky?” smirked Kyles.

Bloody be-artches!

It was a bit of a rude shock to have my weight gain so cruelly pointed out to me. 

Scotto hasn’t said a word about it.

“I’m so FAT right now!” I say in a silly voice every single morning when I’m getting dressed, fishing for compliments and reassurance.

“You’re beautiful, Pinky!” he’ll reply in a sincere voice every single morning.

Maybe he’s just been too scared to say anything and left it up to my (sometimes overly) candid be-artches to give it to me straight...

It’s just been so hard lately to come home from work, drag on the joggers and get out there amongst it pounding the pavement; but I think I’ve discovered a secret motivational strategy...


If I take one of these ‘fizzy feel-goods’ at about three o’clock, I’m instantly infused with enough energy to push me into seeking out my jogging shoes. 

There is the added benefit that, halfway through my hour long walk, I abruptly and without warning, experience a pressing and unrelenting urge to wee. 

It’s such a critical and insistent inclination that I actually have to break into a slow trot... then a proper jog, then a faster jog and finally a panicked sprint which would rival Black Caviar coming into the home straight.

Every afternoon Scotto witnesses me galloping up the driveway, slamming open the front door, roughly pushing everything in my way aside (including the terrified cat) and screaming frantically, 
“Toilet! Toilet! TOILET!”.