Getting the balance right

For the past week, I’ve been walking around with a crashing headache and have taken ’seriously crabby bitch’ to the next level.

Not that I’m taking it out on anyone (of course I wouldn’t, she lies). But I’ve been finding it hard to think straight or even speak with any lucidity. Some people think I’m tipsy. Most don’t notice (hmmm, that’s not a good thing, is it?).

No, it’s not early onset of dementia. It’s getting healthy – which involves the D-word (detoxing, I’ve discovered, is no fun at all).

I went to see a very lovely nutritionist/naturopath – and now I’m on a quest to improve the function of my adrenal glands, balance my hormones, and possibly even reveal my six-pack (which has been in the cooler-pack for way too long).

Apart from taking as many pills and potions as my 80-something mother does, I’m on a super healthy eating plan – which doesn’t involve chocolate, wine, coffee, or rice, pasta, bread, crackers, potatoes or yummy anything.

If it wasn’t for the damn headache (which drugs don’t budge) and having to be conscious of what I eat, I’d be feeling fine. I just really hate having to focus on food ALL the time – because that’s what happens when you’ve got to plan every meal and snack (like I have the time – or the inclination to hang around in health food stores).

So yesterday the voice of reason kicked in (aka: non-compliance, failure, whatev…) and I had a coffee and a slice of bread with vegemite (slap! slap!).

Almost instantly, the headache disappeared – and so did the bad mood.

Now, I’m not saying this whole detox, eat healthy, live forever stuff isn’t great – and I’m not giving up on ‘the plan’. I’ve just decided moderation is much more my style…

Besides, at my age I need all the preservatives I can get.

x Elle

 

ABT (Abs, butts and…tears)

My 19 year old daughter joined the gym a few weeks ago and, because I referred her, I got three personal training sessions for $50. Good suggestive selling… “would you like fries with that?”

And now I’ve signed up for a block of 8 sessions with a trainer who has a voice for radio and a body for… well, let’s just stick with the voice.

He also does the Elvis-style ‘thank you very much’ when I manage to squeeze my butt, suck in my abs, keep my knees together (yes, there’s a line there), and maintain correct hip alignment – all while balancing with my shoulders on an exercise ball and executing some ridiculous pelvic manoeuvre.

I’m not sure my multi-tasking skills need the workout…but apparently my abs do. I’m sure these PTs stay awake at night dreaming up new tortures.

The funny thing about a half hour training session is that I feel good after it – even if I swear and curse at the PT all the way through it. He wasn’t even slightly surprised when I told him my dad was ex-Navy.

The only downside (which I’m told is a good sign) is that my protesting abs scream even louder the day after. Um, that’d be today actually.

Just goes to show that all those contracts you make with yourself are a waste of time. I can cheat myself easily. But when someone’s watching, I grit my teeth and keep going…

Well, would any sane person really do a hideous number of convoluted scrunches that target every millimetre of their abs? Left to my own devices I would have stopped at 10 (and that’s probably an exaggeration).

Anyway, by the time bikini weather really strikes, I’ll be ready to grin and bear it.

If not, according to the fashion doyennes, a strategically-draped sarong will cover a multitude of ills. I was thinking more along the lines of a bed-sheet…

Elle