Wednesday, 9 January 2019

Hoola-anuary is officially over...

Well, one week into the New Year, and I‘ve lost a stone, sorted out my finances, and have organised play dates for the kids from now until forever.

Said no-one.

None of my clothes fit.

Not in an, ‘oooh that’s a bit snug after too many mince pies’, kind of way. I’m talking eye-wateringly tight jeans and tops that give you a mono-boob and stop the circulation to your lower arms.

When talking about getting fit this year, I’d happened to mentioned to my husband that I was good at hoola hooping.

Well, what I actually said, after several glasses of fizz, was that I was ‘fucking incredible’ at hoola hooping.

It was one of the skills I acquired in my early 20’s, along with twat wrapping (the art of wrapping embroidery thread around a tight plait in someone’s hair and charging a quid an inch) and fire eating.

These are all clearly life-skills that we’re essential in the 90s.

Anyway, fast-forward a few days from my show off conversation and the postman delivers this.




I wish I’d said I was fucking incredible at wearing Dior, or going out for posh dinners, but there you go.

I guess it’s good to be heard sometimes in a house full of loud children, even if it is to request a bloody hoola hoop.

It turns up, and there’s a picture of a girl two-thirds my age on the box. Give me a few weeks and I’m going to look just like her.

So I slot it together. It’s weighted. Like actually heavy. But if that pre-teen on the box can do it, I, a woman who has birthed two children, should be more than capable.

I give it a go.

Now. I have never been repeatedly hit in the stomach, but if I had, this is how I imagine it would feel.

The weights twatted me in the gut every time the hoop swung around.

Undeterred, I kept focus. Managing to keep it going for ten rotations. Then twenty. Finally ending up in a knackered heap after getting the bloody thing to swing round thirty times.

The next morning I woke up feeling like I’d taken on Mike Tyson, and on further inspection I realised I was covered in bruises.

Actual hoola hooping injuries.


This was meant to be an easy way to lose two stone without having to leave the house or turning off Coronation Street.

And I’m walking around like I’ve had a hip replacement. I’m sure this didn’t happen when I was hoola hooping at raves in 1998.

And to make matters worse, it turns out hoola hooping only really makes a difference if you do it everyday for a minimum of half an hour. HALF AN HOUR? Are you shitting me?

It only burns off 7 calories a minute, and I’ve been doing it for an average of three minutes a day.

21 calories.

That’s not even a cup of tea.

I give up.

Hoola-anuary is officially over.








Wednesday, 2 January 2019

Resolutions and reminding yourself you're brilliant...

Hello New Year. Hello new me. 

Obviously not starting on 1st January as everyone knows that’s the day to eat all the leftover chocolate and down a shit load of full fat coke to shake off the old, hungover, 2018 me. 

But January 2nd. Here we go. Deep breath. Well deepish.
  
I wasn’t expecting to wake up and be like, wow, I’m spiritually zenned out and motivated to run a marathon. 

I have, however, been preparing for my radical transformation.

I’ve been signing up to newsletters. Lots of newsletters. As well as diet websites, running apps and calorie counting calculators. 

These pledges for the better, improved version of myself have almost exclusively happened at about 2am when I can’t sleep. 

And today, the first day of the ‘new me,’ the only thing that’s altered is my massive inbox.

It turns out I’ve signed up to everything. 

The running everyday for a month one, the giving up sugar one, 5.2 diet, keto diet, Veganuary (how are you actually meant to say that anyway?) As well as the classic dry January, of course. 

I’m knackered just looking at all the unread e-mails, which doesn’t, incidentally, bode well with my ‘declutter in a year’ app, as I'm meant to start with sorting out my digital and social media accounts. 

By 10am, I’ve had a-fucking-nough. I can’t find my trainers and I’ve inhaled the kids’ left over crumpets without even realizing I’ve done it. 

I’m completely stressed and not sure if a glass of orange juice counts as part of a fruit only cleanse or it it’s contravening the no-sugar diet. 

And what the fuck is a coffee bullet? And how can cream and cheese make you thinner?

I think I’m losing my mind.

So instead I curl up with the kids, eat the chocolate coins my youngest has found down the back of the sofa, and decide to do none of these things.

I can’t resolve to be something I’m not. 

I like running. But not every day. 

I like veggie burgers, but also a big roast chicken on a Sunday. 

I like coffee, but not with butter and cream (surely I read that recipe wrong…)

And I like wine. I love wine. 

So this January, I suggest we just be a bit kinder to ourselves. 

Fasting every other day might work for one person, but it equally might not for the next. And actually, what the fuck does it matter anyway?

So whether you have a glass of wine in your hand or not right now, whether you’ve signed up to do a charity swim across the channel or live on raw food for the next month, remember to also give yourself a break.

 Allow your inner voice be your greatest ally.

Let her shout how brilliant you are and not how much you need to change. 

Whatever other pledges you have made for 2019, also resolve to be kind on yourself.

Happy New Year. 


MASSIVE PS... 



Thank you so much for reading my blog over the years or months, or if this is the first time, ace as well! 
I have written a novel with the same name, You Can Take Her Home Now, which is due to be published by Orion in late Spring, but you can preorder it on Amazon now

THANK YOU TIMES A MILLION, I WON'T LET YOU DOWN.


*I am jumping around the front room with such gusto that the pelvic floor doesn't stand a chance every time I say this out loud.