#its january the 3st for me !

[4mulaone]

goooooooob morning fellow petrolheads . its a new its a new day its a new life and im feeling....... Goob :)

[gaiatheorist]

Growing up.

(Disclaimer, that particular theme occurred to me somewhere between panic-checking my bank-balance, and watching an escaped cricket on the sofa, to see if it would crawl into one of the boy’s many bags, so I wouldn’t have to deal with it. The bank-balance is still a terrifyingly unknown issue, today being a bank holiday, and the ex not having sent me the money for his motorbike insurance, but the cricket is now in the dragon’s vivarium.)

I haven’t seen as many life-affirming posts on Fakebook as I feared I would ‘need’ to wade through, with my patented cat’s-arse face, and Slimming World (Other weight-loss cults are available) seem to be waiting until an actual working day before filling all of the space that there is with adverts. Really, if you want to lose weight for YOU, for health reasons, or because you want to, go ahead and do it. Don’t do it because ‘everyone else is doing it’, or because you think being ‘slim’ will be unicorn-magic, and make everyone like you. I could lapse into that Roald Dahl thing, about beauty, but it’s a Guardian article I read yesterday about society normalising body-shaming, and idealising a particular ‘shape’, or ‘look’ as perfection that’s bugging me. 

It’s not the ‘weight’ thing that bothers me so much, my weight fluctuates, I suspect that’s relatively ‘normal’. I had some fairly gruesome medical investigations last year, so see if there was a physical cause for losing over 3st in 18 months, there wasn’t. The man who performed my colonoscopy looked through my notes, to find my last-recorded weight, and it was over 11st. When I presented myself to my GP, looking for the reason I couldn’t maintain body-mass, I was 8 1/2st. clinging on to the few pounds I’d managed to pack on, after dropping to 8st 3lb at one point, I’m 9 1/2st now. That was one of the reasons the constant Slimming World chatter in the office made me want to scream, their maungy faces when they’d ‘maintained’, and their creepy fixation with losing whatever arbitrary number of pounds their ‘target’ was. I’m not getting angry about it now, it saddens me, that grown women, ‘professionals’ were so utterly obsessed with ‘target weight’, so drawn in to the round of applause for being ‘Slimmer of the Week’, and so dejected when they didn’t win a basket of crap other people had evicted from their cupboards. I’m relatively sure that once ‘they’ hit ‘target’, and stop going for their weekly weigh-ins, the weight will creep back on, and the cycle will start all over again.

I don’t want to lose weight, although I do acknowledge that I ought to do something about my lack of muscle-tone, this back-pain is probably exacerbated by not-moving, but, being MY body, there’s a sort of demonic squeal from my lower-left back when I do move.  

My hair is a mess, not just because I haven’t combed it for days, but because I haven’t dyed it in months. I’m not really the ‘graceful greying’ type, there’s pretty clear evidence of my advancing years, in the quantity of pure white hair sprouting out of me. A grown-up woman would have done something about that by now, what I do is put on a woolly hat if I’m leaving the house. I either will, or won’t dye it prior to the work-meeting later this week, the sarcastic part of me wants to leave it, in a ‘look what you have DONE to me’ gesture, but I’m not entirely sure ‘badger that has crawled out of a bin’ is professional enough for the meeting, especially if that patronising twat from the authority is there.

This outward-loathing-of-heels-and-lipstick is deflection, I recognise that I’m a crap grown-up, and I’m 40 next week. I’m navel-gazing, in the most profoundly ridiculous ‘where do you see yourself at 40′ way imaginable, twisted humour being my go-to. I don’t have a new car, for fuck’s sake, I haven’t bought new BOOTS in well over a year. The salmon I ate for my New Years Day lunch wasn’t responsibly sourced, lovingly oak-smoked, and served on an impossibly complicated bed of fuck-knows, it came out of a tin, and I didn’t check the use-by date. Material ‘stuff’ doesn’t appeal to me, but I’m so profoundly shit at being a grown-up that I spend the last two weeks of every month eating remnants from the back of cupboards, because I’m scared my debit card will be declined in Tesco.

Right, knobhead, evaluate what you’re wittering on about.

I’m 40 next week because I was born in January 1977, and that’s how time works. For the last week or so, I’ve been fixated on the time I was about 14, and that lad who used to drop his pencil under the table, and pull his penis out of his fly in History got hold of my diary. He was a weird one, and he’s probably in prison now, he was the one who masturbated into the yoghurts we made in Biology. Anyway, he got hold of my diary, and read the front page OUT LOUD. “Stop biting nails and picking spots, grow hair, and change image.” I’ve stopped biting my nails, except when I snag one, and can’t be arsed to find the clippers. Spots, I haven’t quite mastered that one, being disgusting. ‘Grow hair’, bit of a contentious target there, 14-year-old-me, because hair grows all on its own, and if I had known at 14 all the places a hair might decide to sprout out of a 39-year-old, I might have reconsidered. Change image. Well, I don’t have an image, do I, unless ‘that weird one that nobody wants to talk to’ is an image, or just plain ‘bitch’. 

I get myself all wound up about other people’s ‘image’ obsessions, with their eyebrows just-so, while mine just sit there on my face, and I need to let some of that outrage go. OK, it’s not healthy for grown adults to sulk all day if you don’t notice their new hair-do, but it’s also not-healthy for me, as a supposed-adult to get my Asda cartoon-character knickers in such a twist about it.

Fuck it, I might wear the Tinkerbell pants today, I don’t have any Peter Pan ones.