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

Aussie Aussie Aussie

Cleavage and humidity do not play nice.

That’s just one of the conversation starters that cropped up this Australia Day.

We’d had the traditional discussion about changing the national flag, and the debate about becoming a republic, then it was down to the serious business of hitting the beach with family & friends.

With about 90% humidity by 9am, my cleavage and I thought it was a damned good idea.

So we packed the children, towels, umbrellas, shade shelta, sunscreen, hats, thongs, drinks, snacks and ice packs in the old car, along with a nifty little beach cricket set I picked up at the cheap & cheerful shop, and headed south. A little too far south, as a matter of fact, as in the heat of the discussion about patriotism my Beloved missed the turnoff and inadvertently joined the traffic bound for the freeway (proving once again that men cannot multitask the way a woman can).

If that wasn’t bad enough, he got a tad hot under the collar once his mistake was pointed out (no less than three times in direct relation to the number of other family members in the car) and forgot the flag sticking out the car window at the precise moment he wound it down. There was the ‘boxing kangaroo' waving its fist in farewell to us in the rearview mirror as we retraced our path up the Pacific Highway. Luckily we still had another flag poking out the other window and that was almost enough to keep the kids happy (and quiet) for the remaining ride to the beach.

That little incident aside, we proceeded to set up camp and have a great day beside the sea under the famous Aussie sun. After about 3 hours of frolicking in the sand and surf, we fired up the portable BBQ and settled in the shade for the traditional sausage sanga. There’s nothing quite like a burnt banger in a bun, complete with tomato sauce and healthy dose of sand.

Then after waiting the prerequisite 30 minutes after eating, it was another round of sunscreen and back to the sand for an all-in game of cricket (complete with Australian-flag-decorated bat). Happily, my back was feeling better than it had for days and I surprised everyone (myself included) by diving into the action trying to beat both boys and breakers to get the ball (our daughter was quite content to search for seashells, and the other mothers declined our invitation to join the game, for some reason). For me, the horrendous humidity took precedence over pride as I leaped and splashed about the beach in a bid to beat the heat.

It was only after I felt the sting of the sun through my multiple layers of UV protection, and the children (and husbands) were visibly dropping from all the excitement that we agreed it was time to head home, apparently taking half the beach with us in the back of the car (waiting for me to vacuum out the next day).

Sadly, there were two casualties from the excursion: my back started scolding me for being a little too ambitious in fielding wickets for the cricket… and my son suffered bright stripes of sunburn from where the zinc cream stopped after he refused to wear his hat after one too many dunkings in salt water.

As we all rolled into bed after celebrating our national day the Aussie way, we started making plans to continue the tradition for same time, same place, on the 26th January 2011.

But maybe next year, to paraphrase another seagoing individual: we're gonna need a bigger umbrella.

Jx
©2010