Burn Baby Burn

There are times in your life where you can sit back comfortably and say "Well I'm never doing that again!"

This is not one of those times.

Seeing how I can't sit comfortably at all.

But I'm never doing that again, all the same!

The 'that' that I am talking about is falling for one of those Group Buying sites, which purport to offer bigger better bargains on a whole host of needful things.

Foolishly my hips and I thought I needed to try the new body-shaping salon at our local shopping centre.

It sounded promising enough (well they always do don't they?) Save 70% on Two Sessions where "you could lose centimetres" from a chosen body part, without anaesthesia, scars, and no discomfort, if you can believe the hype.

I should've known something was up when the store itself wasn't actually named on the voucher, simply 'Shop 21' at the given address. Next hint was when I called the listed number and got an answering machine: "Sorry we can't take your call right now, but please leave a message and we'll get back to you." Again, no name, so no message from me.

Attempt number 3 proved a little more positive and I got to speak to an actual person- albeit one with a very strong accent.  I tentatively booked in for the next day.

Came the day I headed for the address, clutching the precious piece of paper that promised so much and trotted along with my hopes and my head up looking for the elusive 'Shop 21'.

I was received with great welcome and the offer of Chinese Green tea, which I respectfully declined...I was keen to start losing those centimetres!

Shown into a cubicle barely big enough for the bed, I was told to remove my jeans and lay down.  At least I think that's what I was told. So that's what I did. On her return the friendly little female fired up the machine destined to do the dirty work. Next thing that should've suggested this process was probably not recommended by doctors were the words 'Explosive Speed Grease' exploding across the front of the thing (What the hell?), but no, having spent my money with the rest of the Group, I was determined to suck it up, or at least let the machine do it for me...

First step, squirting cold conductor gel onto my flabby bits, followed by a gentle soothing massage with probe number one whose ultrasonic pulses start attacking the fat cells inside (the Radio Frequency mode).

Sorry, did I say 'soothing'? The thing emitted such a painfully high pitch while it worked that I was sure dogs from surrounding suburbs would come running to see what all the fuss was about. Either that or disappear in the opposite direction. Which is what I should have done. 

The sound was a strange robotic chime that went straight to the very centre of my hearing centre, which is a whole lot worse than it sounds (think Dentist drill times 100). It set my teeth on edge, and apparently also had a similar effect on my muscles as the friendly little female had to remind me to "Relax". (Guess she couldn't gently massage my gluteus maximus while it was maximised...) Trying to follow her instruction to "Enjoy the music" I had to tune out the squealing in my head to focus on the easternised version of a popular song: Simon and Garfunkel's 'Sounds of Silence'. (Does that sound like irony to you?)

Phase Two was a heat treatment designed to start breaking down the fat cells, ready for easy removal by the body (the delightful sounding Fat Cavitation). Unfortunately, the aforementioned female didn't reapply the gel and I started leaping off the bed every time she hit a dry patch of skin with the heat probe. "Solly! Solly!" she said as she then squirted enough gel to cover the necessary bits...along with my undies, the towel attempting to cover what remained of my modesty, and the bed itself. So now I'm lying there, butt in the air, in a puddle of cold conduction fluid. My only saving grace was that I had worn the 'good' undies.

Having survived Phase Two it was onto the final step- Lymphatic Drainage- a mini vacuum cleaner type attachment that promised to somehow start sucking that fat right outta there.

By now I was way beyond relaxation, way beyond enjoying the sounds of silence, and much more in tune with my body saying it was not at all happy with my choice today.

So I wasn't particularly peeved when the friendly little female told me that my two hips equalled two sessions and my voucher was now used up. I walked out of there a lot faster than I walked in, and was indeed starting to 'feel the burn'. So much for 'no discomfort'! Unfortunately, I kept on feeling the burn well into the night (rather like sunburn on the inside), despite drinking the recommended water, and applying cool packs to the affected areas. By 5am, I was totally over the sensation, so here I am, sitting on a cold pack, dosed up on painkillers, with just as many centimetres as I set out with.

So no, I am absolutely, definitely, positively, and painfully never doing that again.

And as for Group Buying, methinks I have been well and truly burned.

Jx

©2012

The Birds & The Bees

It’s about that time that my daughter and I had a little talk.

Yep charity’s not the only thing that should begin at home. 

So does sex education.

I’ve learnt that the hard way.

Oh it was innocent enough- My Beloved decided we deserved a break from the constant bickering that had punctuated our Saturday morning up to that point, so he shut the bedroom door on the kids saying he wanted 5 minutes alone with mummy to give her a quiet cuddle. For a change that’s what he actually meant! 

Didn’t quite realize how it sounded to another’s ears until our 6 year old told a caller that “Mummy can’t come to the phone right now, she’s busy in the bedroom having a hug with daddy.”

Well, didn’t my friend give me grief when I got hold of the handset?!

I really don’t know who was more embarrassed or amused when Miss V knocked on the bedroom door to pass the telephone over and I was greeted with giggles from my friend, followed finally by an explanation of the mirth (also the background comments from said friend’s husband that Fathers’ Day was still weeks away and was he getting an early gift). It wasn’t like that at all. (Heaven knows we have learnt to schedule those sessions for when we’re least likely to get interrupted i.e. when kids aren’t home!)

But with our son now approaching the age where school sessions are scheduled to ensure the information is delivered in a factual and fun way (whatever that means), it means that the adults in the house are having “that” discussion about whether the children are really ready for it.

Here’s the thing. We’ve never used euphemisms or silly nicknames for body parts- we’re both big on calling a spade a spade (or whatever’s the relevant term for the item in question)- and have discovered real issues when our offspring bring home titles like “willy”, weener”, “doodle”, “family jewels”, and “front bottom”. (Front bottom? Seriously, what is up with that??)  And I’ve even had to have a quiet chat with my son at the request of another mother that terms like “balls” are really not appropriate to use in conversation with girls in the classroom.Unless it's in the context of sport.   

♫Awwk-waaard. ♫

I have to say though, that the very thought of having to sit down and have “The Talk” with my daughter immediately brings up memories of my mother attempting to do the same with me as a child. Being the youngest of three girls in an all-female household, there wasn’t a lot left to the imagination (think nudie runs from bathroom to bedroom simply to keep the schedule of all those women in a one-bathroom house), and of course we were exposed to the schoolyard discussions of what’s under other’s clothes or the private stuff that goes on in two-parent families. Ours didn’t exactly fit the perfect model of mum-dad- and-the-kids, my sisters and I never had the opportunity to accidentally expose what really goes on in the marital bed (and both my therapist and I thank our lucky stars every day for that, just quietly) so mum had some explaining to do.

I distinctly remember the extreme embarrassment mum and I felt when she took me into her room, brought out the tried and trusty copy of the puberty book (you know, I can’t for the life of me remember the name of it, only that it had a garish yellow cover– must have blocked that one out as a painful memory!) and sat me down and started to read. I still shudder at the thought of my mother nodding wisely at the advice that relations between a man and a woman are a special thing given by God, or words to that effect. I was so innocent and embarrassed that I couldn’t even come up with a clever comment like “So that’s why people call out His name?!” at the time.

But we both survived it relatively intact.  And now it’s my turn. With my little girl who has yet to embrace the fashion and makeup and all the bling things that others her age are well and truly into.

My turn to find the appropriate text to take into the bedroom and sit her down for that chat.

One can only hope that no one rings at the time or else my son might just tell them I’m unavailable because of something to do with sex!

Jx

©2010/11

Art for Art's Sake

Today I went tattoo shopping with my friend.

I’m not talking about those water-based jobs you get with a stick of bubble gum; I mean the real deal: getting a tattoo artist to insert ink under the skin using an electric needle.

The only thing was my friend didn’t know who to do it, where to do it, or what she even wanted to do.

I’ve long considered getting a tattoo myself, but as I haven’t found a design that I’d be content to take to my grave, I am yet to allow someone else use my body as a canvas. (Mind you, I have 4 tatts already, if you count eyeliner, so I'm not that scared of the process.)

The other big decision is where exactly to put the thing. There’s a lot of talk about which part of the body looks best, hurts worst, and what sort of image will stand the test of time. (Last thing you wanna do is turn up at your nursing home with “we’re here for a good time not a long time” plastered across your wrinkled old hide.)

I would never put one anywhere near the buttock region. Aside from the indignity of having to drop one’s pants in a public place, the thought of having a stranger’s face that near my rear just doesn’t sit well with me.

I’ve heard that the stomach and inner hip are popular, but I’ve also heard the tale about the lass who got a dolphin done, gained a little weight and ended up with a whale.

I simply fail to see the point of getting your favourite image etched on your shoulder or down the bottom of your back. Despite the fact that they’re colloquially called ‘tramp stamps’, you’d need to be a contortionist to see it yourself, and isn’t that the reason you pick a picture- because you like it?!

Necks and arms might be hard to hide in certain social circumstances. I can just imagine my mother going every shade of red if I rocked up to a family function with the full sleeve job (one of my aunts discovered a little pink pig strategically placed upon her daughter when they were getting ready for a wedding and it was pretty much “wah wah wah” all the way home).

The best value tattoo I think would be one in the vicinity of the chest, at least for females anyway. My theory is, it starts up here, give it a few years and it ends up down around your hip. Et voilà- two for the price of one!

But I’d never go there, for the reasons outlined above, about the bottom.

So you can see why I’m still only thinking about inking at this stage of the game.

But my friend is ready and raring to go, and so we hit the trail of the local tattoo parlours to see what they offered, and how.

First place we went into gave me an instant headache. While signs everywhere declared that drugs and alcohol were not permitted on the premises, their standards weren’t obviously as strict when it came to bodily odours and death-metal music.

Trying to stand upwind of the crew alongside us checking out the portfolios of pictures, I came to the conclusion that even if the perfect pic did jump out at me, I couldn’t possibly stand the sounds screaming out of the speakers for the time it would take to do the tattoo. So I for one wouldn’t be lining up for any artwork there. My friend came to the same conclusion, with the bonus of being more than a little concerned about the choice between baring her butt to some fairly large fairly hairy gentlemen, or a lady of questionable sexual preferences. She chose to go with none of the above.

The next place was cleaner and quieter, but the artists seemed to be computer geeks taking a plunge into grunge- only with an ‘80s backing track- so the atmosphere was a little odd to say the least.

It was third time lucky at the next tattoo studio. Not only was it clean and bright and smelt like it met all the OH&S criteria, but my friend finally found the piece of art that said it all (and worked out where to say it too). In spite of the manager’s warning that screaming was not allowed during the procedure, she booked an appointment, and then booked me to come along for moral support. How well she handles it may be the deciding factor whether I continue my search for an image to grace my skin. Or not.

And despite my Beloved not being overly fond of the idea of me getting a tattoo too, he did come up with a suggestion…

He said that if I truly wanted to do something about global warming, I could get a little sapling scrawled across my butt. His exact words were: “as you get older and fatter, the tree will grow and that’s gotta be good for the environment.”

If he’s not careful, he’ll find himself with a permanent mark of his own- the imprint of my boot on his backside. I wouldn’t even charge him for the privilege.

Jx
©2009

How Much can a Yogi Bear?

I’ve heard heaps about what Yoga can do for you.

Since I’ve had a lot of trouble getting moving over the past couple of years, I was happy to join in when a couple of mums from school suggested we give it a go. There’s safety in numbers after all.

The workout started with me wriggling into gym tights that have sat on the shelf a little too long, if you know what I mean. I’d already worked up a small sweat just pulling the leggings up, but at least I got a head start on the warm up routine.

The first inkling that the class itself was going to prove interesting was when the lady alongside us asked that we move our mats over in case anyone got kicked in the head. I thought that was rather ambitious, as the chances of me getting my legs higher than my own knees were a whole lot slimmer than the lady making the request (I didn’t realise I’d signed up for the skinny minny class- my bad).

Unfortunately, the subsequent shift to the left parked me right alongside the abandoned bags and footwear of the other participants; a fact which became painfully obvious as soon as we started the deep breathing exercises. Someone needed some odour eaters, and how!

If my eyes weren’t watering from the very effort of putting myself into the positions being ably demonstrated up the front of the room, they certainly were whenever the instructor said ”Now roll your head over to the left and take a deep breath in.”

By the time we reached the part where we tried breathing through alternate nostrils (to involve the mind and invoke a better intake of oxygen, don’t you know)- I found it easier to only partake of half the exercise, inhaling only on one side…the one farthest from the shoes.

So there was great rejoicing on my part when we moved from the floor to our feet, and even the indignity of being the only one needing to call out “Timber!” whilst in the tree position didn’t worry me nearly as much as the thought of more mat work.

I must admit, I was feeling pretty good about myself as the class progressed- I even managed to touch my toes at one stage which proved highly motivational for someone who has trouble seeing her feet from time to time. It’s reassuring to know they’re still there, at any rate.

But my confidence only went so far, and at one point I felt I was channelling Yoda moreso than doing Yoga: getting everything backwards I was.

While I was leaning to the left everyone else was off to the right. Or I was saluting the sun while the rest of them were doing the downward dog. Worst was when I was bum up while all the others were head down. Not a good look for a beginner, I can tell you, especially in tight tights.

I bravely struggled through, and am proud to say I completed the entire hour and a half without once whimpering out loud.

Even though by the end of class, I was half passed out from the chloroform effect of the joggers beside me, yet barely able to move myself away from the offending odours, as my lower back reminded me of why I was there in the first place- it seized up and I found myself still making like a snake long after everyone else was upright.

I’m happy to report though, that I completed the class and even earned congratulations from the instructor.

I was happier still when the others suggested we hit the closest café for coffee and cake.

So, home I come, feeling better for giving it a go and able to report that I am feeling the effects already- even if it’s pain instead of pleasure at this stage.

Who knows, by this time next year, I might be flexible enough to kick that lady in the head after all. Especially if I find out it was her shoes alongside me.

Jx
©2009