Nude by Christmas

38 years old, 102kg. One of those numbers is about to change.

Archive for the tag “food”

Seduced by a vegan

I just consciously ordered vegan. I feel dirty. Like I’m about to grow a beard and my clothes will start to smell.

And I liked it. Like really liked it. Like mopped up everything on the plate – not just because there was hardly anything on it, but because it… tasted… good. Oh I can’t believe I just wrote that. It tasted good.

I don’t even know what it was. There was an avocado, a tomato and something – to be quite honest – which looked like a shit. Sorry for being so crass, but that’s one turd I can’t polish. That’s what it looked like. I’ve never eaten shit in my life, but if it tastes anywhere near as good as this shit-looking thing that I just ate, I’m surprised more people don’t eat it. See, I told you I feel dirty.

The waitress who served me was, thankfully, carnivorous. She looked down her nose at me, stared with her over-made-up-eyes, and sneered. Phew. That made me feel normal. Like it was right not to want to eat this stuff. Then she talked to me about bacon. How she would wear it, she liked it so much. How she had seen shoes with bacon painted on them, and a t-shirt, and bacon band-aids. Enough with the bacon, already! I thought, as my butter knife easily sliced through my pile of vegan poo. But on she went. About her friend who was denied a place in a share-house because – although vegetarian – the vegan landlords wouldn’t touch her with a bean-pole. Wars are fought over things like this.

I’m sitting here looking at the plate wondering what I’ve just done. Like I’ve woken up in a strange bed, incense burning, next to a skinny girl, tanned from spending too much time in Bali, with beads in her hair and a pierced tongue. Hmmmm. Guess it’s not so bad.

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Eating Disorderly Conduct

There’s not much funny about eating disorders.  I’ve known bulimics (men and women) and at least one anorexic.  I’ve suspected a few more.  A lot more.  Once I even wished I had one – bulimia – but I just wasn’t brought up that way.  Oops.

The bulimics I knew at university all hung out together – between the cafeteria and the toilets.  They seemed to be otherwise quite normal people (well, they were otherwise normal – whatever that is), though most of them smoked and spent a fortune on breath mints.  The anorexic hung out in hospital, mainly, or at home when things were better for her.    I can remember shaking my head, trying to understand what was going through theirs, then just accepted that I couldn’t.  The life moved on, I went to work in the corporate world, and people got much better at hiding their disorders.

Then I entered this strange online universe, where people are either disturbingly honest, deceptively devious, or devastatingly disturbed.  I suspect many are all three.  And I accept that the real world is just the same.  But somehow, when it’s in print, it haunts.

There are some people I have followed on Instagram or Tumblr, because I’ve liked the look of their pics.  Ok, I’ve liked the look of the pics of their bums.  They are all impossibly thin.  Some of them have been born with them, some of them have worked for them, some of them have done both.  But some of them have spent their nights on hands and knees, fingers at the back of their throats, purging themselves of whatever they stuffed down there only minutes earlier.  When I work out that the slender bottom, in the seductive pose, with the fingers suggestively draped beneath the elastic of some skimpy black lace, belong to someone with an obvious eating disorder, I ‘dislike’  or ‘unfriend’.  I just can’t perve at purgers.

Same goes when a cry for help pops up on my screen.  A hand-scrawled note craving for someone to ‘like’ them, or they’ll slit their wrists; ‘comment’ or I’ll cry; ‘friend me’ or I’ll flip out.  It’s tragic.  I don’t know you!  I don’t ‘like’ you – I like your pic.  I comment on your pic, not you.  I’m not your ‘friend’, I’m just browsing…  If you need me, or people like me, you’re in trouble.  Big trouble.  And you should probably get off online and get on with things offline.

But don’t listen to me.  Get help.  Real help.  From a real person.

Sundae bloody sundae

Friday night and its sundae night for me.  So much for eating healthy.

I took the family out for some healthy burgers – home-made ones, not the stinky plastic things you get from that Olympic sponsor .  But the burger joint happened to be across the way from an ice-cream shop.  Resistance was futile.  And resistance training was even further from my mind.

Ice-cream is not usually a weak point for me: savoury tempts me more.  But tonight, I was weak.  A scoop of the magic icy stuff, a blob of hot fudge and squirt of cream on top.  Even my kids ate better – lemon sorbet.

I read on someone’s blog earlier in the week that you have to understand the difference between boredom and hunger.  Well, I don’t even have the boredom excuse tonight.  I think I just wanted to be bad.

Bad.  Ha.  Some people pierce their old fellas and ride a hog, I eat a choc-fudge sundae.  So macho.

In penance, I am doing burpees.  And just straight out burps, to tell the truth.  Neither are pretty.  But I’m not about pretty… just read my posting from earlier today.

Calories and Craps: Vegas, Baby!

72 hours in Vegas is enough, more than enough, to understand everything that’s wrong in the world.

When the fattest people on the planet are not at Disneyland devouring turkey legs the size of an ostrich, they are in Vegas, waddling their way along the strip from one resort monstrosity to the next, bucket of margarita in hand, leaving one free to accept the flicked card of a hooker slipped into a greased palm by some random on a street corner. It can safely be assumed that Occupational Health guidelines would require all hookers to ride reverse cowgirl style while in flagrante delicto so as to avoid being crushed under the weight of their mega-clients.

But I digress…

There are no kids in Vegas – they’ve either all been swallowed whole by their obese parents, or locked into a kids’ club somewhere, parked in front of Playstation, where they will learn to be sedentary… and lazy… and get used to the blinking, flashing, beeping sounds of screens, that will later translate into gambling addictions. To go along with their food addiction. The one family I did see was propped up against the counter of a hamburger bar, oozing cheese down there chins and making regular trips back to the soda fountain to top up their Hoover Dam sized drinking vessels (which flashed, incidentally).

The mega high-roller gamblers that hit town in their corporate jets and Hummer limos are commonly referred to as ‘Whales’. The name would be a good one, if it weren’t for the fact that almost everyone in Vegas is the size of a whale. But these whales are whales because of the size of their wallets. Their ability to swallow big wins or losses, not just Big Macs. You don’t see them on the street, they are shuttled in via chopper to the roof tops of the faux castles/pyramids/skyscrapers that make up the hotels of this very, very strange town. Once inside, they either drop more money than your entire extended family will make in their lifetime, or rip the shirts off the backs of the casino mogels daring to take them on. Then they will eat and drink like the rest of the crowd. Only more. And in private. And at great expense.

The hotels themselves are almost as big as the people. Mine was a grotesque reproduction Italianate palazzo. It was claimed by some of the guest I spoke to, to be “even better than Italy”. Better in a worse kind of way, I would argue. But then this guy would know. I mean he had stayed at The Venetian on a previous visit – so he was full bottle on la dolce vita, Vegas style. Not that he’d been to Italy. The real Italy. Why bother? When Paris is just next door…

Well, mini Paris. To say that Vegas doesn’t do things by half is just plain wrong. The Eiffel Tower at the Paris Hotel, Las Vegas is only half the size of the real one. Impressive? In a Lego kind of way…. But don’t worry, they double the cheese to make up for it. And the queues around the corner of the all-you-can-stuff-in-your-gob buffet (hey, that’s French!) are only bested by those at queuing, soda and candy in hand, to pay a mint to see the lithe, athletic, sexy bodies in a Cirque du Soleil show… Oh, Cirque du Soleil. Don’t even start me on Cirque du Soleil. Fast food theatre.

I feel dirty now. I gotta go run.

Portions out or proportion

My biggest problem is portion control. I can eat well with little difficulty, but, well, I find it difficult to eat little. But let’s be blunt about this: I lack self-discipline. Really, that’s all there is to it.

I don’t like the idea of doing those cleansing diets – because of that horrendous second word, diet, but in thinking if using one as a kickstart to change. A kick in the pants to my brain, which is a rather confused metaphor, but you get my drift. I’m starting tomorrow. Fruit. Veg. Herbs. Green tea. Water. Grains. Nuts. Legumes. That’s about it. Ten days.

Let’s see how we go.

The best way to respond to portion control is to respond disproportionately.

Eating

The diet is the hardest bit to change. Not just because you crave the yummy things, but because the rest of your family does too. When you’ve got three kids and a wife, it’s not all about you – that goes for everything, but certainly when it comes to cooking. Sure, it’s easy enough to say just make everyone change – but have you ever cooked for kids? They’re picky. I’m lucky, my kids are good-picky, but they’re picky nonetheless.

We don’t eat terribly, but we certainly don’t eat perfectly. We’d have fish once a week, chicken maybe twice, meat once or twice and the rest would be carbs (pasta) and veges. Almost all of our food is prepared at home, with only the occasional take-out meal. My biggest food issue would be portion control – I just love food, so making myself stop eating so much is priority number one.

My kids’ lunch-boxes would surely be lauded by nutritionists everywhere. They’re full of veges – tomatoes, cucumber, fennel, snow peas, capsicum, baby corn stalks – and a piece of fruit – one of bananas, strawberries, apples, pears… they love it all. They’ll take a sandwich, only every on wholemeal bread, which is usually either the great Aussie staple of Vegemite, or as a special treat, jam. My son won’t even have butter.

Hmmm. They eat better than I do. Funny how writing these things down makes you realise what’s really going on.

So far, I’ve cut out all butter (don’t miss it) and all milk (never really had it). I’m lowering my carb intake (it was way too high), but not elimating. I’m hoping to push towards fish three times a week, chicken a couple of times and another meat once or twice. To be honest, I don’t care much for meat, so it shouldn’t be a big deal.

But portion control… that’s the sticking point. That’s really just discipline, isn’t it?

If anyone has any great recipes, or any other thoughts on these, feel free to share.

I’m heading out for a walk.

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