Nude by Christmas

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

Archive for the tag “Sexy”

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.

London Olympics: Fifty Shades of Greyness

I can’t remember being less excited about an Olympics. I blame London. Dull, dreary, dowdy old London. The Olympics is meant to be a celebration of summer, skin, sexiness. Hot people in hot weather delivering hot performances. Think Sydney. Think Athens. Think Barcelona. Where the crazed former fascist Juan Antonio Samaranch gave us sizzle and sass, his successor, Jacques Rogge, the beige, bloated Belgian, gives us bland.

Sure, Tony Blair and his spin doctors did their best to make us buy London as ‘Cool Brittania’. But lets be honest. It’s not. Or if it is – if – it’s cool in a literal way. In a Rain-On-My-Parade-Queen’s-Jubilee-Boating-Jaunt kind of way. In a Boris Johnson’s hair kind of way. Or, in the ultimate slap in the face to Blair: Cool in a David Cameron kind of way. Younger my drift. Anyway, who’d really buy that line? The IOC? Surely they can’t be bought?

So instead of the colour and spunk of a Barcelona, the eastern intrigue of a developing Seoul, the twang of a bevy of southern belles in Atlanta, we get Fifty Shades of English Grey. Hold the spunk. Please.

You can bet the school-boy toff, Cameron, will turn up to slap bums at the beach volleyball, desperate to hide his Etonian erection bursting through his Union Jack boxer briefs, and scared stiff that one of the Amazonian Brazilian women might slap him back and tickle his ego. Ew.

Prince Charles will show at archery or fencing, or ride his wife into the equestrian arena where she can rub damp noses with her sister-in-law. Harry will front for a photo shoot with Usain Bolt, kitted up in his athletic Skins, revealing his very own Big Ben for all to see. William will be found at the pool, doing the pleasant Commonwealth thing of patronising the colonies, while wifey Kate will get snapped wearing something virginal and white with the half-naked body of an immensely athletic black man contrasting against her English rosiness. We really have not come that far.

The Brits will win things for the first time in decades, thanks to the home ground advantage (which only the Canadians managed to fluff), and the grants from the national lottery. America will come second to the Chinese, and Republicans will blame Obama for being a pand(a)ering commy sympathiser. The quaint stories of African tribesmen winning 10 000m events will be blunted by them FaceTiming on their iphones back to their village immediately after their run, while here, in Australia, 23 million obese people will stake claim to being the ‘per capita’ medal tally champions of the world. It’s what losers do.

There will be slow motion replays of heart breaking injuries, this year in 3D, and endless sob-stories of the champion whose sister’s fight with leukemia spurred her on to claim silver, four long years ago. This time, she’s ‘hoping to go one better’. If only the TV networks could hope for the same. But they won’t. There will be embarrassing mispronunciations, flattery and flirtery galore, and someone – some golden boy or girl – will be crowned forever as our hero of these games, and forever more drive an Audi, wear a Tag Heuer and wash with Sunsilk.

I love the Olympics. The games. The athletes. The dedication it takes to be the best in the world at anything. But they have become bland. Devoid of all the spirit they once stood for. Now it’s all about ‘the brand’ ahead of the bold. Where John Williams’ Summon the Heroes once sent a shiver of excitement through me, as the dignified Greek team would nobly take their place at the head of the Olympic family, I now shudder at just what lame ‘economic default’ joke the commentators are going to make as the founders – now flounders – of our democratic way of life lead the grandest parade of nations.

Visa will flog us to debt. McDonald’s will saturate us in fats. Samsung will convince us it’s good. And Count Rogge and all his pseudo-royal has-beens and never-was-beens will lap up their $10 000 a night hotel suites, drinks at Buck Pal and the best (sheltered) seats in the house at the venues of their choice.

Meanwhile, on the field and in the pool, on the track, the pitch, at the table, court-side, in the sand, the saddle and on the seat… the young people of the world will have gathered, fit as fiddles, ready to battle each other in the name of sport. And endorsements. Good luck to them all.

And roll on Rio.

* * *

PS: The above is satire. Get a sense of humour IOC, it would make a great start. And don’t sue me.

Look Boss! I’m plain, I’m plain!

I remember when tattoos were found only on sailors or Fantasy Island.  Most of you are probably too young to get the reference, and most of you will probably have ink somewhere on your gym-honed bodies. I don’t. It just wouldn’t suit me. I couldn’t carry it off. But I kinda like the people who can carry it off. Good on them, I reckon.

Problem is: not everyone can.  And not everyone’s a good judge of whether or not they can. And yet everyone seems to be getting inked these days.  Everyone.  Even those of us who shouldn’t.

If you know who you are, know what you stand for and want to express that by pricking your body with ink – go for it. I’m all for.  You’ll find some cool, Tim Burton kind of way of way of making your calves or clavicle  look ridiculously hot, and I will envy you from afar.  Or wish I got to touch it.  If you’re a bloke, then that sleeve (as long as it doesn’t look like an Archie comic, or include a portrait of your mum) or thing across your back (sans religious symbolism) will impress me.  But I won’t be so hot on touching it.  Admire from afar will do just fine, thank you.

But If you’re a messed up wreck, stumbling around in the dark night of your own life, desperate to find something about yourself to cling to: think again.  Tattoos are not a good way to find yourself.  The Pink Panther peering over the top of your undies could clash wildly with the tribal tramp stamp guiding your parter to your nether regions from behind.  The quote from Dawson’s Creek?  Sadly, I have come across each of these things on the flesh of an otherwise seemingly normal human being in the course of my relatively short lifetime.

Fit people carry it off better than most.  Not surprisingly, tight skin can wear a tatt better than blubbery, pasty skin. Taut and tatted? Terrific.  Inflated and inked? Icky.  And likely to get worse over time – as you swell, your skin stretches and… ugh… suddenly your Pink Panther starts looking like the mangy feral cat that stalks rats in the city sewer.

As for the hotties?  Well, I like something with meaning. A good quote (no Dawson’s Creek) or a symbol of some significance. If you a fourth generation Caucasian Australian who’s never set foot outside of Sydney – forget Aboriginal markings. Never been to the South Pacific? Then that swirly thing’s not for you.  Chinese calligraphy? Sure – if you’re Chinese. Or at least you know what it says. What it really says.  Just don’t get it done in Bali.  Just… don’t.

Tonight was an unusually tatt free night at the gym.  The young hotties must have all been out on the town (it’s Saturday), and it was left to the dowdies like me to hold the fort.  We who missed the tatt boat, and who navigated our late teens and twenties predominantly with pubic hair…

But then that’s another whole blog post right there…

Tatt’s all folks.

Insta-fibby photos by Insta-fatties (like me)

I post pictures of my fat gut and man boobs on Instagram. It’s off-putting for some, I’m sure. In a community that is seemingly populated with six pack abs, buns of steel, thigh gaps (I’d never noticed them as being so sexy before) and picture perfect pecs, I am the wobbly whale. The thing is, my photos are of me. Peter Perfect Pecs and Belinda Bubble Butt’s pics are of… models. Hot guys and girls from around the world and across the net, perfectly shot by pro photographer, then just as perfectly photo-shopped by pimply nerd on an iMac. I’ll admit I can’t help but ‘like’ these. Who wouldn’t like a twenty year-old babe’s butt you could bounce a dime off? Who doesn’t crave the Atlas shoulders you could – probably literally – carry the weight of the world on. I’m happy to admit that I love seeing these pics come up in my feed… pure eye candy.

And that’s where my problem starts. The sweeter the eye candy, the less nutritious these pics are for my soul. And it’s in the soul that I need the most nutrition.

So what feeds my soul is the fatties like me. The men and women brave enough to bare their souls, not just their tits and asses. The mums struggling to drop gut and boobs that arrived when they delivered their third child. The chubby teenager, who’s realised being a Pringles gobbling Prince of Persia legend isn’t going to get him laid. The dad who works for himself, just not on himself, and has let the Coca Cola Company’s advertising wizardry drown him in feel good calories for years on end… hey? That’s me.

Nothing inspires as much as before-and-after pics. We all love a good story with a happy ending. A journey through fear, with hope on our side, that results in a victory, a transformation…

…and, in my case, a body as hot as my inner soul 😉

Stay tuned.

The girls and boys on Instagram, and a bit about treadmills

Right now, I’m on a treadmill. Walking, blogging and Instagramming. So damned 2012 it’s not funny. I’ve already done a cardio session this morning, just following up with some weights tonight. It’s 10pm in the part of the world I inhabit.

If you haven’t spotted me on Instagram, it’s not hard @nudebychristmas is the name, photos of me, exercise and food is the game. I’m also dropping down some thoughts there too.

If you follow me and check out my likes, you’ll notice I like girls butts, mens torsos and the legs of both. No, I’m not bi, I’m just an admirer of quality. If you work hard, and look good, I’m gonna tick like. No hidden agenda. Sure, it might mean I think you’re attractive, but hell, isn’t that the whole point? Your butt is hot. Like!

I staggers me a little how many kids there are on Instagram with such low self-esteem. Look, I’m no Anthony Robbins (the guy’s over the top in my opinion), but seriously people, get a grip. Today some girl posted a threat to shutdown her account if more people didn’t like her, or make more comments. Sheesh – just shut her down already. If you’re on Instagram to make friends, it’s time you joined the real world. And made real friends.

There are 15 year old girls desperate to lose pounds to squeeze into a bikini, 16 year old boys obsessed with their abs, some that admit to self harming, many that admit to just being miserable.

How do we get it through to these kids that the hottest body is a healthy body, and nothing – nothing! – is sexier than confidence.

I wasn’t going to put my face on Instagram. This was both a privacy and self-esteem thing, but then I thought fuck it. I’m me. Fat, but thinning. Middle aged, but not middling. Weak, but getting stronger. If these messed up kids can see that it’s okay to make it to 38, have all of these so-called ‘faults’, and still be prepared to put yourself out there, there may be some hope for them yet.

And for me.

I gotta go sweat some more.

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