When Does It Stop Sucking?

For the past couple of weeks, I've been a regular fixture at the gym because I've faced the music and understood that there is just no alternative.

I like food and I need like alcohol. A lot.

And I am genetically challenged. I'm not complaining; I'm just stating fact.

I come from small but hardy stock. The women on my mum's side of the family are short-waisted and big assed. Now, I know that this might be upsetting for them to read but let's face it, we have broad shoulders, wide hips and ginormous boobs. We were designed to play hockey and grow cows and procreate.

And all of these genetic quirks are fine except that I do not live on a farm. I don't have rigorous farm chores involving barns and hay and feed. I don't have a garden. I don't even mow my own yard. If it weren't for the gym, the only regular exercise that I would get would be breathing.

You know what happens to a woman like me without exercise?

Spreadage.

And you know what? I'm just not going to purchase one more freaking set of yoga pants because the truth is, I don't do yoga. While I'm sure there are numerous benefits of being able to lick one's own bottom, I have purchased yoga pants only because they were comfy and implied athleticism and not because I was planning to hook my legs up over my ears anytime soon.

And diets?

Worthless. I have tried every last one of them. South Beach, Cabbage, the Zone, Weight Watcher's, Jenny Craig, HCG, you name it. They all work in the short term, of course, but they're diets, not lifestyles. Who can subsist on 500 calories a day for the rest of their lives? Who can vow never to eat another peach or banana because the carb counts are through the roof? My life has been consumed with trying to make friends with the filthy, lying, whore who inhabits my bathroom scale. I have actually moved the thing around the bathroom in an effort to find a special spot on the floor that will shave one or two ounces off my morning reading. And yes, I know that is insane behaviour. I will never embark on another diet again. EVER.

I'm tired.

Of counting calories. Of obsessing about the Anzac biscuit I can't eat. Of forcing ounce after ounce of water into my body. Of wanting to bitch slap any woman size eight or less who dares to ask, "Do I look fat in this?"

I give up.

It's not rocket science, is it? The basic formula still stands. Eat good food, in reasonable portions and get regular, vigorous exercise.

Period.

So yeah, back to the gym. From now on. Forever and ever. I've been told that one of these days, I will crave my workouts and that exercising will feel like a reward. I'm thinking that the person who came up with that little nugget of horseshit is probably first cousins with the nutter who claimed that orgasms were possible during childbirth.