It was the photographic evidence that did it.
Me emerging from the surf in my bathers. In my mind, I was a vision splendoured. Sure, a little worse for wear after having four children (and a penchant for vanilla slices when my blood sugar levels were a little low, when I was sad, when I was feeling happy and also whenever I walked past the bakery).
Still, at 46, I thought I could still shake, shake, shake, shake that booty with some confidence.
And shake I did when I noticed my thighs had experienced a late growth spurt. What was I to do? Yes, I’d been exercising moderately like we’ve been told we should. I’d given boot camp the boot some months ago, making the decision that being yelled at by somebody other than my children before 7am did not make me a better person, or improve my world view.
So, instead, I’d focused on finding an exercise regimen that best suited my lifestyle. I took the stairs instead of the lift. Mostly… sometimes… well, um, actually… truthfully… only if going up two flights or less. At my age, I get hot flushes just sleeping, why create more?
I’d been walking rather than driving. Except recently when I travelled from Adelaide to Melbourne, not being able to decide on the appropriate footwear for such a journey. Then there’s my latest activity – cycling. I’ve bought a retro mint green, mid-life crisis bike with the comfortable seat, thinking I’d look stylish riding around the suburbs, the wind in my hair and a baguette in the cane basket.
Unfortunately, the ugly helmet prevents the wind cascading through my locks and my husband says it makes me look like an extra from MASH.
The only sweat I seem to build up is when I’m forced to continually bend down to pick the baguette up from the road. Wobbling so badly, not having been in the saddle since ’83, the loaf doesn’t linger longer than 98 seconds in the basket.
So it must be my diet. It needed to change. It’s fundamental, isn’t it?
Calories in minus calories out equals weight loss. Simple.
Being a sucker for a fad diet, I was ripe for a new one.
I’d done protein-only diets, where you eat nothing but cheese and steak – and lost nothing but friends. They packed their bags, bored with my endless conversations about constipation and bad breath.
I’d juiced myself sick thinking liquid might go through me more quickly and the calories would have no chance to grab onto my love handles on the way down.
I’d gone for Army diets, the Heart Foundation diet, shake diets, pre-packaged food diets, the suck-nothing-but-a-lemon-through-a-straw diet and the eat-one-vegetable-per-day-and-nothing-else diet.
In the diet wash-up, I learned that you can’t juice an avocado, that if you eat too many carrots you do turn orange and that there are a lot of people out there making money from vulnerable people.
Then I discovered the diet du jour – the 5:2.
It has more celebrity endorsements than a Kardashian and also, like a Kardashian, managed to turn what is very little content into a successful TV show, phone app and extremely easy to read book.
Yet, unlike a Kardashian, doctors have said it’s good for you.
It had me at hello. Actually, it had me at you get to eat all you like for five days (and then cut back a little for two). I’ve really stuck to it and, unlike others, it hasn’t caused me any great pain.
Day one, I had bacon, eggs and a skim latte. Then mid-morning, a handful of Savoury Shapes and an apple. Lunch was a beef sandwich, then for dinner I had spaghetti bolognaise and a delicious vanilla Drumstick.
Honestly, yesterday was no trouble at all. I’ve got four more days like that, which I’m sure I’ll be able to stick to, then I’ll restrict on day six. Perhaps I’ll replace the Drumstick with a Cornetto, drop the bacon and have spinach with my eggs instead.
Yep, I’ve got this.
Related stories
Native ad body.
Native ad body.
Native ad body.
