Fat Girls Guide To Fat Camp - Part 2

       It would be safe to say that more than a few days have elapsed since this post and the previous – I could invent some mistruth and tell you that I have been so engrossed with this new diet and exercise regime that I just couldn’t find the time to type. When you exercise as much as I do you get sweaty fingers which are a nightmare on your keyboard, absolutely impossible to type, oh the hardship!  Or maybe I could tell you that my amazing-ness has finally been noticed and I will be on next month’s Cosmopolitan; I just can’t keep up with my new socialite status. Ooh, or I could tell you that Chris Pine paid me a social visit and I’ve had him locked away in my ‘50 shades of Grey’ style room since (PVC really brings out his eyes).

(Chris in PVC trousers on our spin across Connemara – 2013 heat wave)

(Chris – listening to me recite some poems – in PVC trousers – Connemara, 2013 heat wave)

Well, if I told you any of that it would be a pile shite. 

The truth is, since deciding to go on a diet I’ve done absolutely nothing but eat! I’ve eaten things I never knew my cupboards held.  I’ve eaten things others never knew their cupboards held. I’ve eaten things I’m fairly surely weren’t all that edible! I’ve stalked the house looking for hidden treats and when I couldn’t find any I actually walked to the shop on the pretence of buying fruit and vegetables (I know...what are those?) and I’ve emerged from the shop with 3 bags of rubbish. You name it, I bought it.  As long as it didn’t look healthy we were on a winner.  And all that time around the supermarket that unfortunate phrase reared its lollipop head:

 – I’ll start again tomorrow – no you won’t you fat fecker – I will definitely start tomorrow AND I will do some exercise – will you fuck, you lazy heifer, if you did any exercise you have a heart attack! – I promise! Just let me have this 7kg bag of chocolate! I promise I will make an attempt to consider moving more. – A moment on the lips, forever on the hips...not to mention that arse and belly – Fine! I’ll get a smaller bag but I’m having Ice-cream now too! – If you eat anymore you’ll never fit out your door!-  I said I will start tomorrow! 

My subconscious could not win against the sudden starvation my body felt it was undergoing at the mere mention of a diet.  So I ate it all, every last bit of rubbish and now I’m twice the heifer I was before I started the ‘diet’.  Moo! Moo! I’m beginning to think the jaw wired shut is the way to go! A liquid diet is definitely the answer - at least you can still have alcohol.  Needless to say I didn’t go to fat camp last week and I’m not going this week either.  It’s going to cost me a fortune in re-joining fees at this rate but I’m scared stiff I may be the first member to break their scales!

 I have been somewhat proactive in the last 11 days. Somewhat.  I could say it was enthusiasm to get healthy.  But I think it was guilt, a deep unsettling catholic guilt.  The guilt you get when you know you have committed all seven deadly sins in the last hour; the guilt that will not let you be wasteful; the guilt that makes you do stupid things - productive things.  I willingly rooted out my exercise bike and freed it from the manacles of clothes it has languished in.  I willingly moved it into a good position with a view of the TV and I willingly plonked my fat derrière on the saddle and peddled like I was chasing after a Cornetto. 

(Expensive clothes horse – otherwise known as exercise equipment)

The whole ordeal only lasted 30 minutes.  Do you know, it’s very hard to peddle, watch TV, breathe, cry and laugh all at the same time? I was grateful I had the good sense to close the curtains; god help the neighbours if they had copped an eye of my jibbly bits in full momentum! By the end my skin had turned a wonderful shade of death; my heart had more beats than a David Guetta track.  And my arse, my poor arse was crying with the mistreatment of it all.  As I got off the bike I could feel my arse apologising to the saddle...'So sorry there...yes, I can imagine that was quite uncomfortable for you...yes, I realise that was 30 minutes of darkness...I understand you are now scared for life...I'm quite embarrassed myself, I don't normally sit in such hostile places!' In my mind the bike was screaming, crying out for the clothes to hang limp and weightlessly from it.  It was screaming for my ‘heifered’ stature to get the feck away from it so it could recover from the shock.  

All the next day I walked with a limp.  I couldn’t sit on anything hard and was smirked at endlessly.  What they thought I had been doing in my spare time made me seem a whole lot more interesting than I thought I was ever capable of.  My verdict? Exercise is fatal to a good and innocent reputation; it should be avoided at all costs; and as for the diet? I will start again tomorrow! I promise. 

Fat Girl's Guide to Fat Camp - Day One

“If you put your mind to it, you can achieve anything”  - A catch all phrase to rationalise your long list of failures.  Whoever came up with that saying should be shot.  I don’t for one second imagine that if I put my mind ‘to it’ I could make Chris Pine my sex slave. Nor do I imagine that if I put my mind ‘to it’ I could enter and win the Rose of Tralee. Do they mean everyone’s mind and how much do you have to put ‘to it’?  Here’s the problem: I am a heifer.  Unequivocally and shamefully.  Moo!  I’ve tried most diets known to woman.  The first week is always amazing...I convince myself that in those seven days I’ve shrunk down to a side 6, so trim and lean, sideways I’d surely slip through a grate.  I spend seconds persuading myself I am slinky and perfect – Then I’m suddenly impervious to making rational food choices.  Cream cakes? Oh, If you insist! Did you know if you close your eyes there are absolutely no calories!  That’s probably not true but when your mind is as warped as mine you believe your own shite.  Once you fall off your diet and bruise your fat arse it’s very hard to heft yourself back up.  I have an unfortunate disposition that after one week I’m convinced I know everything anyway, so what can these happy-clapy-fat-camp feckers teach me anyway?

Humility for one perhaps.

 Sometimes I fantasise about being kidnapped, trapped for weeks on end without food: crying because my captors are gorging on KFC or Supermac’s; or if they are up market kidnappers - homemade scones with jam and fresh cream.  I image that my sharp, astute wits and that module in Strategy will allow me to formulate an escape plan with more twists and turns than ‘Prison Break.  With my ‘Walking Dead’ survivalist knowledge and abundance of charms, I envisage myself making a triumphant escape and being a desirable, skin and bone size to fall lustfully into Wentworth Miller or Andrew Lincoln’s arms.  But who the feck am I codding?...kidnappers are looking for a light candidate; not one that would take half a rugby team to heist into a transit van and the potential to bald your tyres after 5 miles. 

    I think the worst part of being a heifer is the pitying looks and words of condolences: 

‘I’m sure you will grow out of it...it’s easy to fix...it just takes time...if you exercise more...if you just opted to have your jaw wired shut like I suggested...you may as well give up...have a new career goal, a bucking bronco perhaps...he probably would have asked for another date if you didn’t eat the entire stock of the restaurant...that chair definitely had a wobbly leg...I’m sure they make it in a bigger size...’

   So what’s to be done when you are almost on all fours using your tail to swot flies away, lowing in the dusky evening? I guess trying again is always a good start.  With an impending wedding just 4 weeks away it’s about time I try to shed some pounds...if only so I don’t have to walk with my back pressed against a wall hiding a gaping zip and back boobs.  Attractive huh?  

The first rule of starting a new diet is to eat the entire contents of your fridge and cupboards in one night. Seriously, you don’t want to have to pick through the bin on your lowest moments.  It’s very important to make sure you have enough reserves to undertake this gruelling task.  This may be the last time you admit to eating chocolate and crisps.  It’s a fact universally acknowledged that skinny people don’t eat that stuff, they like to lick laminated pictures of it instead.  

The second rule is to have a good support network.  Fat camps can help you succeed but make sure you are in a group full to the brim with elephants.  It wouldn’t do to attend the class with those who are nearly at their goal – you will look like the photo taped to their fridge. Your aim should be to look like the trócaire kid in every class! Also it helps if you enlist the support of your fattest friend.  Meet up regularly to size her up and feel better about yourself.  If you find you do not have a friend fatter than you – then that’s just rough - do not engage in any ‘coffee and chat’ meet ups...they are looking at how your arse wobbles and thighs jiggle.  Do not trust anyone!

The last rule of starting a new diet is to give it a chance.  Be open to change.  I know you are perfect they way you are...I know you are knowledgeable about everything...and I know you only have a few pounds to lose before you are a supermodel: but just give it a chance.  For me, I have to go back with my tail between my legs...turns out I didn’t know everything and maybe this happy-clapy-fat-camp feckers can help me put my mind ‘to it’ before my arse needs to be photographed to carry its own passport.  

The Stray (An Extract)

        I’ve heard that women of a certain age go through a change.  My wife is of a certain age.  She has lost it and what’s more she not even bothered to look for it.  As the phrase goes - her cheese has definitely slid from her cracker! I thought it was bad when she went through her experimental phase. I thought it was worse when she went through her spiritual phase; moonlight tree hugging and firelight rain dance rituals can become rather tedious.  But now she’s gone a step further.  She’s actually making decisions that might effect me.  A stray, she brought home a stray.  She doesn’t even like dogs.  And me?  I’m fucking allergic. 

   ‘Well, little-miss-compassion, what will you do if I have an asthma attack?’

   ‘Hold the pillow over your face for longer!’ she calmly stated.

   ‘He’s flea ridden, probably laced with worms and rabies.  He’s got frigging teeth.’

   ‘What could I do?  He’s all alone, look at him! He’s gorgeous!’

The dog in question is a Springer Spaniel. I’d hazard a guess and say full-bred.  Pedigree or not his frothing at the mouth certainly was off putting.  I winced at the animal in distain; it had sporadic tufts of matted fur and a tail that had been docked too short. 

    ‘Fuck stunning!  What’s the matter with you? I thought you’ve had your mid-life crisis?’

   ‘Maybe I’m revisiting it, you grumpy fat bastard.’

   ‘It’s a dog! It eats, it wees, it digs up the flowers - it even craps on the lawn!’

   ‘Yes you do have a lot in common.  You should compare notes.’

   ‘He can’t stay here!’ I exclaimed.

   ‘He can and he will.’

Two guesses who won that argument? As my wife got up and turned the kettle on I had the overwhelming urge to sulk. It had never helped before so I opted instead for a smoke. 

This hysterical woman went tee-total about three weeks ago and since then I’ve been freezing my biscuits off to enjoy one of my life’s little pleasures.  I clicked the door open.  The mutt stared at me with his large watery brown eyes. With a flash of inspiration and malicious intend I whispered very softly ‘let’s go walkies?’ Without warning the dog leaped through the door, stump for a tail wagging furiously. As fast as it left, the door was locked. I crouched behind the door so the flea-bag wouldn’t see me.  I crouched down further when my wife came back.

    ‘Where’s Scruffy?’

    ‘Who the fuck is Scruffy?’

     ‘The dog, you ass!’

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I don’t know…he must have ran away.’

    ‘You let him out?  How could you?’ My wife wailed and thrashed around the living room. She sobbed up a lung with such passion that I almost felt pity for her.  All remorse was sliced when the mutt started barking.

   ‘Oh thank God, he’s come home.’

Home?  Ah feck it, I’ll never get rid of him now.  She threw back the door so hard I heard the hinges scream.  The furry fecker bounded into the room and frolicked with my wife.  She looked happy, so truly happy.  It sickened me.  

The door to my left clicked opened.  There was a high pitched choir-boy screech.

    ‘What the hell?’

Ah my son, my glorious son who is petrified of dogs.  He has my back. 

    ‘Don’t be silly’ his mother scowled.

Scruffy was gone hay-wire at the sight of George.  He dashed towards him with real zeal.  George did a u-turn and leaped up on to the sofa.

    ‘No shoes on the couch!!’ Kath bellowed.

George looked at her incredulously.

    ‘No shoes on the couch?…well fuck that, I’ll have no bloody legs in five minutes!’

I smirked over at my son.  Yeah, you tell her was written all over my face.  George interpreted it as amusement and not for his benefit.  His eyes narrowed nefariously.  He looked down at the dog, pointed at me and hissed ‘sssgo-on!’

Scruffy growled gloriously and launch a new attack on me.

     ‘No shoes on the good chairs!’ She bellowed again.  

George and I were a living-room carpet apart and yet I felt I could almost strangle him.  The impulse to re-enact Homer and Bart’s feuds gripped me.

    ‘Why you little…’

Kath looked to both of us.

    ‘Right, well I need to go to town.  Look after the dog.’

    ‘You what?’

    ‘You heard me…and the child.’

George looked as frightened as I did.  An afternoon alone with those two.  I didn’t know whose company is worse.  I’m sure I’ll frigging find out.  My wife gave her usual dismissive wave.  She went so far as to peck me on the cheek but thought better of it.  Instead she bent over and patted the dog. The dog wagged his stump furiously. 

      ‘Suck-up’ I muttered under my breath.’

     I hobbled down from the chair.  Scruffy looked at me innocently then yawned to reinforced the fact that he had all the teeth in this relationship.  The front door chimed to a close.  That was it.  I was alone with dumb and dumber. 

     ‘You heard your mother, get down.’ I sneered, hoping the Springer would eat his new Nike trainers in one. 

      ‘Like fuck am I getting down.  She’s your wife, you deal with it.’

      ‘That’s it; you’re making your own lunch today.’

      ‘Not like you can cook anyway!’

I dashed towards the couch, Scruffy thought I was coming for him, barked loudly and jumped up beside George. George’s feet hit the carpet immediately and he glanced at me horrified.

      ‘No shoes on the couch?  What about dirty drooling dogs?’

Scruffy scratched himself laboriously and then proceeded to lick himself.

     ‘I’m sure she won’t mind…’ I replied.

     ‘Yeah, toilet trained and all?…’

The cream sofa wouldn’t survive the ordeal if he wasn't and neither would I. 

      ‘I’ll pay you if you get him down!’ I bargained.

He thought about this for awhile, and then shook his head.

      ‘I’m young, I need my arms, you on the other hand are past it.  I’ve your headstone picked out so you do it…’

     ‘And to think, I gave you life!’

    ‘And to think someone had to admit to creating you.’ He replied smugly. 

I gritted my teeth, next year I’d tell him Santa doesn’t really exist and the money fairy who stole from under his pillow after the tooth fairy had been, that was me! Ha!

For the good of humanity, but mostly coming the year’s sanity I approached the dog.  Chest out, eyes focused, voice firm: ‘Down’ I said.

No response.  ‘Down boy…’ I pointed to the floor and stamped my foot.  George looked as impressed as the dog did.  I opted for the manly hands on approach and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.  Suddenly the dogs head spun around.  His teeth made a glorious snapping noise.

     ‘My hand!  Look at my hand.  Quick, call the ambulance!’

George sniggered. ‘He didn’t even touch you, you woofter!’

I was certain half my arm was laying strewn about the carpet, but lone behold, it was still attached. 

     ‘And you call yourself a man?  Some role model you are!’

George walked over to the sofa, looked at the dog, patted his leg and suddenly squealed when the dog bounded towards him. 

      ‘There you go, you chicken-shit….’ he tried to say in his calmest voice.

Scruffy lay by my feet then rolled over exposing a molting belly.  His legs roved the air like he was on an exercise bike. 

      ‘Oooh goody, he’s having a fit.’

      ‘Don’t be an eejit…’George rebuked ‘He wants you to tickle his belly!’

I laughed loudly. ‘Like that’s going to happen.’

The dog’s legs froze in the air.  Over exertion? One could only hope.  He looked to me then to George.  Neither of us wanted to give him a feel.  He growled lowly. George extended his foot, kicked me in the back of the leg and suddenly I was on my knees caressing the mutt.  I gave my son evils.  He was his mother’s son alright! After five knee crippling minutes the flea-bag had had enough and relinquished me of my duties.  Now, if only my wife were that easy to please!  

What Some Women May Want

The only thing relatively comparable to a night of fantastic sex is buying those perfect killer heels or so those flippant, hysterical, cat driven women will tell you. There is a mere grain of truth in the merits of materialism above disappointment.  Let’s face it, the heels will definitely last on the endurance side of things.  They will be easier to polish, won’t leave ominous stains on the carpet, ceiling or bed linen.  And they definitely will be a better listener.  You can kick them off when they aren’t needed, and they won’t feel betrayed when you slip your foot into a better model.

      Having a man today is hard work.  You can’t have an affair.  Why I ask you, is fidelity so important in a college relationship? Apparently kissing another man around the back of the Union is a no-no. And having your head lodged further down the ladder is off the radar of acceptability.  Actually these antics are only frowned upon when you get caught, and if you’re good, like me, guilt usually gets to you first.  However, I seem to have misplaced my conscience.  I suspect I left it down Mr. Friday-night’s neck. 

    As college boyfriends go, you probably met the dimwit with ten double vodka lime n’ lemons packed into you.  Pissed off your face you probably thought it was a good idea to dirty dance with him on the sticky nightclub floor.  One thing escalates to another and suddenly it’s an awesome idea to let him walk you home.  For safety reason of course, namely that the campus lesbian you refused to make-out with might jump you from behind the bushes.  And that’s how it starts.  How you play it determines his level of interest and commitment.  So girls if you’re looking for Mr.wanaseemybedcovers, being the polite twenty first century woman, you should ask him in for a tea or coffee. 

     When you get up the stairs to the flat and he decides he has to take a leak you have two choices: send him to your friends room and let her deal with it; or let him in and you deal with it.  You weight up your emotional status, and if vodka is scheduled to give you crocodile tears.  Thinking you are probably safe, you let him in. He takes a leak and you clear the bed of underwear and cosmetics.  When he returns he instinctively thinks you’re up for it and slobbers on your neck for a half-hour, thinking he’s tickling your G-spot.  At this stage you’re feeling like an over-lick lollipop and push play on the ipod to break his concentration.  He takes his cue and proceeds to re-enact the full Monty.  You cringe because you never seen one…so small. He reads your face and thinks you’re interested.  Screaming “Yeah baby” he gyrates harder slapping his manhood on every surface around the room.  You shout ‘mind your head.’ thinking it’s so little to function as it is, ‘don’t give it brain damage’.  You’re feeling hot and bothered that this guy could have that much confidence and such an unimpressive C.V.

     You take your jacket off. He dives onto the bed and takes the rest of your clothes off, unwrapping you quicker than a G.Q. magazine.  You act enthusiastic, after all it has been a while and you really should air out the cobwebs.  He’s eager and kisses you roughly; he’s in a hurry to head south. A frosty dread sweeps over you as you consider how long the Viking plaits are.  He carries on, like Mosses on the sea.  The great divide, he is an apt swimmer and navigates effortlessly.  You sound out your appreciation.  Suddenly he rises, and points to tell you to return the favour, you shake your head: ‘It has to last the journey.’  He gets flustered and thrusts himself on top of you.  He goes for the mountainous route and tries to dislodge them.  Men never realised they are attached, under the impression that the twin peaks should be treated like an opponent on the rugby field. You groan…in pain.  A good sign to him. 

     If you’re lucky he thinks you’re a whore and whips out a condom. If he’s unprepared he obviously plays around or worse, he is woefully inexperienced.  You open your bedside drawer which contains half of Pond Street Clinic’s contraception, be guaranteed, he now knows you are a whore (but a health conscientious one). You hand it over and leave it to him.  You don’t want to touch him just in case it deflates.  He puts on the swimming trunks and dives straight in without a word of warning and expects you to be happy for him.  He wriggles around as if he is looking for change in his pocket.  You seem to be going numb; you can’t feel a fecking thing.  If you’re sensible you’ll groan and trash about like a woodlouse turned on its back.  It saves time as he responds by cashing in all his chips.  Looking at the wall, one minute and twenty seven seconds has elapsed.  He has relapsed.  Suddenly he is howling, sobbing up a lung on your bed.  He seems to have lost his balls. You look on the floor, then under the duvet cover and final down the side of the bed. His body must have swallowed them. He cries bitterly, ‘we’ve rushed it.’ You assume his not just talking about the one and a half minute wonder.  He gathers his clothes and runs from your room and is polite enough to leave the condom behind.  You smile to yourself and realised, yes the shoes, I’ll definitely go for the shoes the next time.