The ugly truth in beauty magazines

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10 things every woman should know

stretchmarks1. Everyone has rolls when they bend over.

2. When someone tells you that you’re beautiful, believe them. They aren’t lying.

3. Sometimes we all wake up with breath that could kill a goat.

4. For every woman unhappy with her stretch marks is another woman who wishes she had them.

5. You should definitely have more confidence. And if you saw yourself the way others see you, you would.

6. Don’t look for a man to save you. Be able to save yourself.

7. It’s okay to not love every part of your body….but you should.

8. We all have that one friend who seems to have it all together. That woman with the seemingly perfect life. Well, you might be that woman to someone else.

9. You should be a priority. Not an option, a last resort, or a backup plan.

10. You’re a woman. That alone makes you pretty damn remarkable.

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The skinny on brides

Of course the obvious person to blame in all this is Kate Middleton. For no other reason than half her body seemed to be missing when she stepped out of the car on her way to marry William. Did you see that tiny waist? Of course you did. So did New Idea, Women’s Weekly, Cosmo and Vogue. Now they can’t stop talking about it.

Because Kate did what just about every bride the world over does – she lost a heap of weight for her wedding. Unlike just about every bride in the world, however, Kate seems to be keeping her weight off. I think that’s because she exists on a diet of hearty Welsh air, and when she’s totally famished, she nibbles on the rotor blades of Will’s helicopter. I hope Diana’s ring doesn’t slip off her skinny finger and fall down the sink when she’s doing the washing-up one night. You remember the Lara Bingle/Michael Clark diamond-down-the-drain fiasco? Imagine what it would be like with bona fide royalty.

A dear girlfriend is getting married later this year. She’s lost 25kg since Christmas. That’s Christmas 2010. Not 1994. That’s pretty impressive. That’s up there with The Biggest Loser. Which is good for me; I’m already two years ahead on my daily fat allowance. I’m looking for skinny people to see if I can borrow theirs. [Read more…]

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The week I decided to diet

Monday: The gig is up. Today is the day. I have beaten the hideous smoking beast into a suppurating mess. Now it is time to do the same to the mess that is my thighs. I’ve exceeded the feed limit too often.The reasons I know this are:

1) Yesterday, for breakfast, I had a steak, cheese and bacon pie with tomato sauce and a jam and cream donut. One of those long ones, with the cinnamon sugar, like you got from the tuckshop in primary school. Then appallingly, whilst grocery shopping later that day, I bought some brie, rocket dip and rice crackers and started eating them in my car while driving home. No, there was no knife cutting that brie. Just my teeth sinking into the soft cheese. No, there was no scoop for that dip. Just my tongue licking it straight from the tub. I felt alternately like George Costanza (Seinfeld) and Miranda Hobbes (Sex and the City) who will be remembered for perpetuity for happily consuming food that they’d retrieved from their bin.

2) In desperation, and whilst on aforementioned grocery shopping trip, I purchased ten frozen Weight Watchers meals. Even though the taste of them is identical to eating crumbled polystyrene drenched in home-brand laundry liquid, , it will only add five points per serve to my thighs.

3) Since quitting smoking, I have been suffering from a self-diagnosed ailment I’ve identified as Post Idiomatic Smoking Stress Emergence Disorder (PISSED). Treatment for this illness is to attain an average daily consumption of one 750ml bottle of wine (red, white or combination). Now, I say average, because I might skip my medication on a Tuesday, only take half of it on a Wednesday or a Thursday but think nothing of having a triple dose on a Friday. So it averages out.

4) I injured my foot whilst suffering from PISSED and hence have not worn shoes for a few weeks, let alone heels. Being unable to wear heels means I can’t hide a spare 5kg or so by elongating my body. No longer do people look at my arse as I go past because it looks great in heels. They look at it because they are wondering where I could possibly have misplaced my “wide load” sign. And the safety vehicle that accompanies such signage.

5) I paid a nutritionist $220 to devise a 12-week weight loss plan. She gave me a diet and some motivation, and made an appointment for the following week. I did nothing. Nothing at all. She rings me all the time. I screen her.

I arrived at work with a new determination and a home made salad. But the woman who leaves home to set the world on fire often needs to return home for some matches. My first mistake of the day was announcing to one and all via mass email that I was going to diet. This led to one and all being keen to know what I felt would be the secret to my success. Too lengthy to discuss via email, I deduced, so instead opted to gather my clan at my fave Italian joint, Pane e Vino, simply because everyone knew where it was.

It seemed a shame then not to have the linguine with chicken, spinach leaves, semi-dried tomatoes, mushrooms and a rosette sugo with a few glasses of wine. Gave it all away that night and had two slices of inch-thick fruit toast with lemon spread. Oh, and finished off that bottle of red from the weekend.

It’s only Monday. And frankly my dears I don’t give a damn. After all, tomorrow is another day. Cheers Scarlet.

Tuesday: It’s freezing! I’ve been this cold in Europe, but never in BrisVegas. Usually we spend winter wearing our summer clothes with a cardigan. Perhaps climate change is an international conspiracy to get us to pay more tax. Who wants to eat bloody salad when it’s 11 degrees!

But nobody wanted to do lunch. Got a few boring responses like “I’ve got work to do” and “It’s too cold to go out”. Someone even had the temerity to say “But we just did lunch yesterday”. Interestingly no one mentioned that I was supposed to be dieting. Either my friends are very diplomatic or they know I’m full of shit.

So I ate yesterday’s salad. How God must have laughed when He decided to make alfalfa non-fattening. Felt forced to pick up a toasted ham and cheese croissant on my way home, simply to alleviate my misery. And annoy God.

Wednesday: Nobody told me it was Alison’s birthday. She’s part of my team, but located on another floor. She was delighted when I brought her a couple of Shingle Inn cakes to celebrate. So was everybody else. The passionfruit one is so my favourite. I love birthdays.

Thursday: Meetings all morning at our regional premises. The secretary out there is a smart cookie. She rejects the Arnott’s Family Assorted and gets these proper heavy chewy chocolate biscuits from this Bavarian bakery. You know, with oats and golden syrup and macadamias and white chocolate bits. I’ve always liked her.

The meetings were a bit rough. In this place, if you walk on water people will tell you it’s only because you don’t know how to swim. We kept our wits about us; fairly challenging with those yummy biscuits on the table.

But we really needed a spot of team bonding after that. The Boathouse restaurant at the Regatta Hotel wasn’t too busy and had all its gas heaters working. Moroccan chicken skewers with an extra serve of peanut sauce, accompanied by a bottle or three of an Ingoldby Shiraz. It’s a good thing that I’d thought this might happen. Which is why I didn’t bother getting up ten minutes earlier this morning to make a salad and select a Weight Watchers meal.

Friday: Goodness me, is it Friday already? A ridiculous day to start a diet. Fluffed about at my desk for a while, then got on the net and looked up important things like memorable quotes from Sex and the City and recipes for chocolate cup cakes. And what’s a Friday without a long lunch?

Saturday: Grocery shopping today. I don’t know why I’ve written down that I need ten frozen Weight Watchers meals. There’s still seven in my freezer …

How can that be? I’ve been on a diet!

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Why I will never be size 8


If the recipe says “50g butter”, I put in 250g of butter. Sometimes more. Never less. Never the amount it tells me too. And it is always that yummy full-fat butter that comes in a block, not that watery, oily make-believe stuff they try and palm off as butter. “I can’t believe it’s not butter,” they advertise. “Really?” I think. “I bloody well can.”

It can be 5.10pm, and my spin class starts in five minutes, and I’m standing at the door of the gym, wearing ugly gym clothes, which consist of some shorts I once painted the house in, a sports bra with a broken hook, and a Yankees baseball cap because I managed to buy one in pink, and a friend can walk by and say “Hey Bron, you want to go for a drink?” and next thing the only spinning I’m doing is on my heel, and off to that pub.

There are two types of people in this world: those who order pasta with a tomato-based sauce, and those who order pasta with a cream-based sauce. I’m in category two. Usually I add lots of bacon, olives, mushrooms and a solid helping of cheese. In addition to some garlic bread, several glasses of Pinot Gris and a latte.

Sometimes, I am very energetic and walk home from work. Sometimes, I think I am very energetic and start to walk home from work, and then I realise I’m not energetic at all, and then I get on the next bus.

You think Nigella can pick? Or those Two Fat Ladies? I buy a simple bbq chook for lunch, and as I’m cutting it up, I’m picking at bits of crispy fat chicken skin, and the fleshy bit of the thigh. I’ve eaten so much that I really don’t need any lunch. But I have lunch anyway. It would seem wrong to, especially after I’ve gone to all that trouble to cut up the chicken.

I have an ungrateful stomach, I am sure. No matter what it had yesterday, it wants more today.


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