New Year Diet Resolution – Phooey!

 

How’s the detox going?  Rubbish?  Me too.  The Middle Of January.  It has to be a phenomenon.  This level of winter ennui.

We all feel we need to detox in January and I talked the talk in December.   Really, the intention was all there.  But I’m finding it considerably more difficult to walk the walk.

Detoxing is pants.  Officially. Especially when the weather is like this.  The kids come home from school tired and angsty and race around the house.  By the time they’re in bed, I’m frazzled.  I deserve a gin and tonic, surely?  One little measly glass of wine?  No?

The reward mentality of booze is a tough one to break for me.  I have every angle of reward covered. I even think that the government should reward people whose partners are detoxing.

We’re all in the same boat.  January started out like a giant willy-waggle of who has got the most self-control, but now everywhere I go, stressed looking people are getting through the January detox as if they’re clawing up the Eiger.  It’s like hitting ‘the wall’ during the marathon.

And it can’t be healthy.  In my experience, such levels of self-denial rarely lead to that break-through-the-clouds-sunshine-epiphany-moment.  The ‘Oh My God!  Who knew?  Life without caffeine, booze, cheese, chocolate, bread or butter is AMAZING.  I’m going to live like this ALL THE TIME.’

I sound cynical, but I fear that something has changed in me.  The burning desire I felt during most of my twenties and thirties to be thin (even though I wasn’t) seems to have waned now I’ve hit my forties.  Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to shift these three pounds of mince pie I’ve put on over Christmas, but somehow my desire is being outweighed by can’t be arsed-ness.

Is this what I read about in magazines?  Women in their forties declaring that they are happy with their figures and altogether more comfortable in their bodies?  Hmmm.  I notice it’s always the trim ones saying that.

The Sunday Times this week carried a new regime by the drop dead gorgeous Barbie-woman fitness guru, Tracy Anderson.  The draw of getting the know-how to get a figure like Gwynnie’s in a month was enough to get me to sign up to The Times online, so someone must have done their marketing right, to get an old couch potato like me motivated.

If Madonna can do it, so can I, right?  I used to disco dance back in the last century.

Anyway, I looked at this perfect blonde shiny girl demonstrating these exercises in the online video.  Her face didn’t move.  Seriously.  She looked like she was sitting on a commuter train.  Blank.  ‘This is so easy,’ her expression said.  ‘I can literally do it in my sleep.’

The video fazed in and out with ‘Reps 40’ in bold letters.  Yeah, so like, once you’re bored with that buttock crunch, do this one for forty reps.

40 repetitions?  You have got to be kidding.  Which human beings can do these exercises?  Show me them.

Oh yeah. Madonna and Gwyneth.

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