How to Look Good in a Gunbelt
I've never been a great one for glamming up (geddaway), so I personally blame my daughter and Gok Wan (or is it Wan Gok? Can never remember. Either way, I like him) for my comparatively new found interest in looking reasonable. Daughter was growing up and looking good and Gok Wan/Wan Gok was advising us gels how to look good naked.
I felt better - this was before my complete cure - and knew that in order to look reasonable, I'd better discard the baggy gardening jumpers that I used to wear to my job (in the days I worked in an office, the personnel officer - known today as 'human resources' - accused me, twinkle in eye twinkling hard, of wearing one). I remember the horrible thing well. Grey. Shapeless. Ug!
I chucked the shapeless items recently and lost two and a bit stone in the last couple of years. I'd been comfort eating chocolate etcetera. At least a whole bar of Galaxy at weekends and a bit extra on Wednesdays. A photo of me with Husband's family at a wedding appeared on Facebook. I sobbed. I looked pregnant. Then Husband took a pic of me in western gear (mountainman shirt, fringed boots and stetson, one foot planted nonchalantly on a barrel) and it looked HORRIBLE. Fat! 'Delete!Delete!' I hollered. I wanted to look good in a gun holster again. Stick a pic of me, from way back when I was slim and beautiful during the nineties, in the choc cupboard and go for it. Apparently I was classed as 'obese', which I still hotly deny. Plump, definitely. So, rather than react to the pic of me at a wedding, it was the one of me dressed in cowgirl kit that forced the change.
We bought a rowing machine and I diligently used it virtually daily, to-ing and fro-ing for fifteen minutes while watching various pop star videos. I found that two videos lasted the fifteen minutes. I watched Queen, The Monkees, George Ezra, Paloma Faith, The Beach Boys, Pink Floyd... I could have watched classics, much of which I love, but watching an orchestra playing a soft bit of violin drowned out by the thrumming of my machine going back and forth wasn't quite the vibe. I needed something with beat and rythm, and to watch something a bit more energetic than people gently fluting and tenderly strumming harps, much as I love them. I walked, too. Hard. Ran up and down the stairs for the hell of it.
I joined Weightwatchers for a while. It gave me the incentive to count the calories each day. If my points were under the limit, I could have a yogurt or something equally thrilling. But it worked. I'd watch the weight dropping. Instead of standing on the scales and listen to it screaming 'Get off!', I'd read the new weight. I lost around a pound a week. Over that period, two years ago, I lost two stone, but I've got more to go. From fourteen stone I dropped to twelve and a few more. When '11st' (and thirteen pounds) swung into view I celebrated with a huge bar of choc (just kidding!).
I'm finding it harder now, though. Back then, I still hadn't reached today's pinnacle of mental wellness. We weren't going out much, which meant not eating out, or drinking in pubs, so I found it pretty easy. Today we go out a lot and go away a lot. Which means eating a lot. We have a narrowboat (this is relevant...) moored in a marina in Warwickshire. The office there sells Magnum Choc Ices. Raspberry flavoured. Husband has chocolate (says raspberry is sinful).
However, I am improved stylishly a la Gok/Wan and daughter tells Husband how much better I'm looking. I've started wearing colourful nail varnish and cutting my hair. I've thought of having a lurid pink streak running through my hair. I had, and still have, besides being a wild western woman in buckskin and sporting guns and knives, vague desires to be a hippy, Goth or rock chick, not necessarily in that order...
Still holds true, all three, and riding pillion, dressed in black leather, on the back of son's Harley and roaring off into the twilight, has finalised which order. Yee hah! Up and at 'em!