Pinky's Book Link

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

How Stephen King gets me out of bed.

It was about six weeks ago I began an intensive drive to reduce the hefty roll of fat enveloping my midriff. After starving myself for the previous six weeks I’d come to the definitive conclusion the only way to burn it off was with rigorous (but reviled) exercise.

Every morning I’ve slithered from under my snug doona at sparrow’s fart and lumbered for an hour, eyes half shut in sleepy repose but legs pumping like a whacked-out hamster on a treadmill. 

Like a puffy-faced, cranky hamster on my own pricey, state of the art, pristine-after-three-years treadmill.

Then, after arriving home from a brutal day at the front line of rug rat warfare, I’d don my cheesy joggers once more and trot around the river for yet another hour (wearing stylish ankle weights for that extra resistance and result).

It was with deep foreboding I stood on the bathroom scales at the weekend. I didn’t want to be disappointed after six weeks of self-torture and could only peek at the scales for a few seconds.

I’m overjoyed to release my numbers. Pinky has managed to lose in that long, long period of extreme suffering and sacrifice a victorious… one kilogram.

Yes… you heard right. One. Uno. Ichi. Ein.

Just one miserable, heartrending, contemptible, infuriating kilogram of lardy blubber.

I could put it all back on in five minutes by scoffing a few Tim Tams dipped in a tidy Tia Maria.

I realise the fat took about a year to infest itself, lay down roots and decide to spend an extended vacation and I can’t expect to liquefy five kilograms of adipose insulation in a matter of weeks… but, fair suck of the sav (Sav Blanc that is, I’m a pescetarian remember)! 

I was hoping for better than this. I needed to get my mojo back or I could fall back into the wagon with the soft pillows and the lazy 6:30 alarm instead of 5:00am, the hiding my belly with a couch cushion in self-denial trick and the wearing of elastic-waisted pants. 

But... I believe I may have found the key to motivation.

Stephen King.

I’ve been reading a book of his, recommended by my sister-in-law Maz , titled '11:22:63'.

I fell out of love with Stephen King’s books about ten years ago. They seemed to have become a bit weird and convoluted; cross referencing backwards and forwards between other books and so forth. I decided to break up our long standing relationship and check out if there were any other fish in the sea; of which there were plenty.

But 11.22.63 is by far the most riveting novel I’ve read in years. I find myself daydreaming about it during the day. I’m hooked on it. Obsessed.

So in a Pinky mastermind of genius I resolved to only allow myself to read it whilst pounding my feet at 5k an hour on an uphill slant on the treadmill. When the alarm blasts at 5:00am I can’t wait to shuffle down the hallway, haul myself on the hamster wheel and spend my morning engrossed in the thrilling prose of a man other than my husband… the electrifying Stephen, who’s managing to get my spine tingling again after our lengthy and protracted break up.

A note to my dear blogging bestie, Lee-Anne from Is It Just Me?: I did not use a single adverb in this post in honour of our adverb-hating friend Stephen King.

Read any riveting books lately?

Linking up with Grace at With Some Grace